


Curled Amongst Memories of Home

by doctor_jasley



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Con Artists, M/M, Open Relationships, Stealing, implied memory manipulation of ocs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4021354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon’s an excellent counterfeiter drifting through cities and towns alike. When he meets Frank, it’s a match made in con artist heaven. Frank’s specialty is a little more undefinable, but it makes for an easy exit when the people they’re scamming don’t remember being ripped off.</p><p>Things are smooth, even with Brendon’s ever constant crush on Frank periodically popping up, until they run into Gabe at a club one night. Gabe’s a natural at charming the crowd and that aggravates Frank. Brendon’s more impressed than anything else.</p><p>After that moment, things slowly begin to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curled Amongst Memories of Home

**Author's Note:**

> The was Written for [BBB 2015](http://bandombigbang.dreamwidth.org)
> 
> Synnerxx was the best beta I could ask for.
> 
> chibifukurou made the awesomness artwork ever. You can check it out [Here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4022884)

There’s a jaunty tune playing from the stage. Live bands are awesome. It doesn’t matter if they’re Country or Blues or even Doom Metal, they’re live. That makes everything loads better than a studio recording piping through shitty speakers.

Brendon pushes away from the bar. He doesn’t really know how to line dance, but, hey, what a perfect time to learn. Frank’s apparently not on the same page though, seeing as how he’s not following Brendon’s lead.

Whatever, Frank can sulk into his beer bottle. They’ll find somewhere for him to mosh tomorrow. This venture was Brendon’s pick. So, yeah, he’s totally going to have some fun.

Why the hell not? They’re supposed to be winding down, celebrate the end of another successful venture. He’s even using real cash to pay for his drinks. It’s time to party without worrying about cops or angry townsfolk.

Picking up a new dance is only going to be the icing on this sparkly cake.

He stumbles when he reaches the dance floor. It’s purposeful. When a blonde and her cheerful brunette wingwoman step forward to help him not fall flat on his face, Brendon tips his _borrowed_ cowboy hat in their direction.

He has to lean forward to talk without his voice being captured by the music floating around them. “Evening, ladies. I hope I’m not bothering you, but I was wondering if you could help a guy out. I’ve never had the chance to learn this dance. How hard is it?”

Blondie smiles at him. “It’s not hard at all.”

While the brunette seems to think it’s a crime he doesn’t know how to line dance.

“We were just going to get a drink, but if you buy after the next song, we’ll show you.”

When Brendon tips his hat again and says “The pretty lady drives a hard bargain. Shall we shake on it?” Blondie laughs before grabbing his wrist in one hand and the brunette’s in her other.

Which is how he ends up at the end of one line sandwiched between blondie and the brunette. It’s the most fun he’s had in a month. He’s not exactly coordinated enough to be good, but whatever, he’s laughing his ass off and getting to flirt with two ridiculously pretty ladies.

It’s a mission accomplished in his book. More so when they make it over to the bar afterwards and Mary Beth, blondie, steals his hat while Carol Ann, the brunette, takes a picture with her phone.

Instead of dropping him like a hot plate, they drag him back out to the floor after their beers. Frank doesn’t seem amused from where he’s sitting. Brendon couldn’t care less, he’s earned this. Just because he can’t Jedi Mind Trick people doesn’t mean he’s useless.

They’d starve or get rained on if he wasn’t a master at magic tricks. Yeah, no, Brendon’s not thinking about that tonight. Tonight’s for fun. Not cons.

If Frank wants to be pissed about Brendon’s choice in bars, well, then he can. But, fuck it all, he’s not Debbie Downing Brendon’s love of trying new things just because. They’ll find something a little more underground and thrashy for tomorrow’s festivities.

Celebration night always comes in pairs. That way they stay even, and neither of them has to bitch about how bored they were.

Even if they will anyway.

When they make their way back to the bar, Mary Beth takes a picture of Brendon and Carol Ann tries to cajole Frank into coming out onto the dance floor with them. Brendon can only imagine how grumpy Frank’s face is in the picture so he has to ask if he can borrow Mary Beth’s phone to take a peek.

He cracks up when he gets a good look at the picture on the screen. Holy fuck, he needs a copy of this. And stat. It’s not hard to hit options, then send to email, and pop in Frank’s email address.

By the time he’s handing Mary Beth her phone back, Carol Ann’s giving him a weird look, though.

Brendon’s going to hurt Frank.

He is.

Though, he’s generous enough to wait until the ladies walk off toward the bathroom before he punches Frank in the shoulder. “Not cool. So fucking not cool, man. We were having fun.”

Frank sets his beer bottle down on the bartop and places a few bills next to the bottle for a tip before sliding off his stool. “No reason to stay, then.” 

Motherfucker.

Sometimes Frank can be an asshole. Grade A, douchebag, asshole extreme. Why Brendon likes him is, occasionally, the most confusing damn thing on the planet.

It doesn’t matter if Brendon thinks Frank’s hot. Or that he would totally call himself Mrs. Iero if Frank made a fucking move. Some days he just wants to throttle him for being a dick.

“Please tell me you’re not pretending to be a jealous girlfriend right now. Carol Ann would have totally let you tap that if you wanted in on the action.”

Frank shrugs him off when Brendon leans his full weight on Frank’s shoulder. “Yeah, because you were totally going to score with blondie. You tired of random bar groupies a year ago. They’re boring.”

Ouch.

Okay, Brendon _did_ say that, but it doesn’t mean they couldn’t have fun, the four of them. It would be something else he’s never tried. Not that Frank would be down for a foursome, but whatever.

Fine.

Brendon’s not getting laid tonight. That’s _awesome_.

What a great way to end the night.

*.*.*.*.*.*

The TV’s on some shitty daytime talk show when Brendon shuts the room door behind him. He went out for breakfast. No reason to slip out early when check-out isn’t until noon. They have a whopping three hours left before they have to hit the road.

Frank’s sitting on his bed with his laptop open. Ten to one he’s emailing the Ways. He has an unanswered message from a week ago that’s been sitting in his inbox since he opened it.

Brendon sets the bakery box down on the hotel table. Then he proceeds to dive bomb Frank’s lumpy mattress in an effort to get to the laptop before Frank sends his reply.

He’s _always_ boring when he has the option to attach photos instead. Apparently, that’s Brendon’s job. Seriously, how will the Wonderful Way Brothers know Frank and Brendon are on a continental backpacking trip across the USA if Frank makes it his goal in life to NEVER supply pictorial proof?

Not having cell phones or a camera shouldn’t hold them back. Brendon couldn’t begin to count by fingers and toes just how many times he’s conned people into letting him borrow their phones so he can take _once in a lifetime pictures with his best friend_ because he stupidly forgot to charge his phone and Frank accidentally broke his. It’s like the _perfect_ set up. Even better than the best scams they pull.

It’s magic sprinkled with the genuine good-nature most people can’t help but have.

Frank pulls the computer back, away from Brendon’s grabby hands, when he goes for the keyboard. Which earns Frank a pout. Brendon can’t help it. It’s his default setting when Frank denies him things.

“Come on, Frankie, my Frankie. How will they know how epic that Country and Western bar was if you don’t send them a picture?”

Brendon does the wide-eyed puppy face when he tries to grab the laptop a second time.

Frank climbs off the bed. The bastard even successfully takes his computer with him. Brendon sighs dramatically and lets himself drop onto the rumpled mess of covers leftover from Frank’s usual, nightly effort to thoroughly trash a perfectly made bed into nothing more than remnants of what used to be a picturesque example of bed making prowess.

“At least, fucking send the picture of us in those giant, gaudy-ass sunglasses at Rock City. They’ll get a kick out of that one.”

They will. Brendon knows it.

“You know, I bet we could pull a few, pretty big jobs and be set for a year or longer if you want to veer off course for a while. Go visit them. It’s been what, fifteen years since you’ve seen them? A reunion would be good right about now.”

Brendon rolls himself up in the sheet before shimmying out of the cotton burrito. He’s full of pent up energy. They’re about to start a new con. He’s not sure which one, yet.

He hasn’t decided.

Maybe they’ll charm their way into old ladies’ houses and steal jewelry. He always enjoys those cons. Hell, even Frank likes them because he has this thing for snooping on how people live. What TVs they own. The way they decorate.

It’s not a money thing. If it was, they’d have settled somewhere by now. Bought a fucking mansion and started living like new-age kings.

However, there’s something about conning, scamming, and the whole shebang of general thievery to survive that’s exciting. It’s a challenge that you have to work at. A craft in need of honing

Like the jewelry stealing. You can’t just walk up to someone and invite yourself home with them. No, you have find an in and charmingly exploit that. If you’re lucky, you find something of value. It’s a bust if you don’t.

Or, if you’re Brendon, not ever that matters. He can get around that tiny issue. With a quick internet search and a few touches, it’s easy-peasy to turn something busted into something shiny that’s worth a pretty penny.

He keeps their wares high-dollar while Frank insures they’re never remembered.

They’re the perfect duo, artists who have mastered their craft. It’s more complicated than that, but that usually depends on the con. There’s difficulty settings for everything from skiing to hunting. So of course, it can’t always be smooth sailing.

But most of the time? Yeah, they’re that good.

Frank shakes his head at Brendon’s antics as he shuts his laptop off and starts packing it away for the day. “Email works fine for right fucking now.”

Which is as close as Frank’s ever going to get to saying _I’m not ready to settle yet_ and _we’re not exactly normal, how the fuck do you propose we deal with that?_

Brendon slides off the side of the bed. “I think our neighbors aren’t checking out today. I was thinking we need a new car. What do you think about moving to a Neon?”

He busies himself with opening the bakery box and scanning the doughnuts for the one he wants while Frank moves the hotel curtain to the side so he can pinpoint the Neon Brendon scoped on his way back to the room.

“The blue one with the Red Hat front plate?”

“Got it in one. I know you enjoy MiBing little old ladies. Didn’t want you to miss your chance.”

Frank glares at him.

It’s going to be a good day. Brendon can already tell.

*.*.*.*.*.*

It’s raining outside. Or, well, Brendon thinks it is. He isn’t quite sure. He never is when this happens. When Frank decides he needs a mini vacation from reality and moves to sifting through Brendon’s memories for something happy to watch.

Neither of them understand how or why it’s possible for Frank to do this. All they know is that it happens. And is, for the most part, harmless.

Unlike most people, Brendon’s memories can’t be erased, poked at, or rewritten. He’s immune to Frank’s _superpower_ of being the MiB memory wipe pen. They’ve met a few others unaffected, but there’s something about those people and their own abilities that makes it impossible for Frank to even step in to take a peek around.

Brendon thinks it has something to do with the fact that everyone they’ve met who’ve been immune have had some _gift_ similar to Frank’s. Either they’re mind readers, mind warpers, or even once, a compeller. None of them could influence Frank and while they could _see_ Brendon on that level, they couldn’t fuck him up, thankfully.

Those were always _fun_ stalemates. Thank fuck he and Frank are drifters who never have plans to fight for territory. It makes it easy to bow out gracefully before turf wars get started.

The shitty hotel room decor fades to nothing in a blink of an eye. There’s not a single hint of rain now. Only the sound of a liquor store bell jingling when the door opens. Brendon remembers this memory fondly. Not for how it started out, but for how it ends.

_It’s been a shitty Thursday. The weather’s humid as fuck and Brendon’s already starting to sweat through his last clean shirt. He really doesn’t want to have to fight with the coin machine down at the corner laundromat again. If it’s not eating his bills, it sees right through his counterfeit bills and only gives him a dollar’s worth of quarters._

_And it’s not like he can just magic up a handful of quarters. The machines are just as picky and he can’t get the hang of creating a perfectly round imitation quarter on the fly. That’s why his next best effort is to try and pass off his slide of hand at the liquor store across the street for a whole roll of quarters._

_If he’s lucky, he’ll have half a roll to spare when he’s finished. If not, well, he’ll try again somewhere else. It’s not like he’s going to be staying here permanently. Hell no. He plans on splitting in the morning._

_Which is why he ends up running right into a shorter dude who’s calmly trying to leave except Brendon’s in his way. There’s a quick flash of the thought **you didn’t see me** that’s gone as soon as the guy slides around him and out the door._

_Brendon blinks and stares at the guy’s retreating back. Okay, that was weird. Really weird. But whatever, Brendon has a plan to hatch. Quarters to liberate with a bogus ten that won’t turn back into a measly one until, hopefully, the end of the night, and so on and so forth._

_When he gets to the counter, the clerk is popping a fresh dvd into the drive for his security feeds. The cash drawer is open. Yet, there’s no money in the till._

_Change, hell yeah, but bills, fuck no. Which means short dude totally fucking robbed the place with the power of his mind. Brendon’s super impressed._

_That’s some Jedi mind trick. One he’d really like to learn._

_He thinks quickly, and leans over the counter to slide the cash drawer closed. It makes a tiny metallic sound when it closes, so Brendon bolts into a straighter position and gives the clerk his best smile when the guy gives him the stink-eye._

_“Do you have a phone I can borrow?” It’s the best he can think of on the spot._

_The clerk angrily points a finger at a sign on the wall above the security feeds. “Learn to read, dickhead, **no customer calls**.”_

_Brendon mutters through a fake apology before booking it out the door. He really does not want to be around when the clerk finds out he’s been wiped._

_It doesn’t take long to swipe his backpack from its hiding place behind the laundromat’s dumpster. He’ll find somewhere else to wash his clothing. Sticking around for clean shit isn’t worth the risk of getting arrested for something he didn’t do._

_He hitches a ride to the truck stop right outside of town. Maybe he can play the kicked puppy card and get a lift out of the state with someone who won’t try to gut him like a fish. That would be nice._

_Of course, that’s when the short dude walks into the mom and pop diner for an order of coffee. Brendon’s been perching on the end of a booth seat trying to sweet talk a trio of college girls into giving him a ride. He almost had them, that is, until he got distracted._

_He’s bouncing from the booth to the front counter without even thinking about it._

_“That was inspiring, man. You totally had that guy with your **there’s nothing to see here, schtick**. I was impressed.”_

_Brendon does try his best to lower his voice to a whisper, even if it’s hard as dicks. He’s never been good at quiet voices. It’s something his mother could never break him of._

_“I’m Brendon, and I can’t keep calling you short dude, so a name would be nice.”_

_That earns him a glare followed by the thought **you don’t see me.**_

_Brendon laughs happily before tapping the side of his head. “Doesn’t work, dude. I can hear you loud and clear, but nothing’s happening. Don’t guess you could show me that nifty party trick?”_

_“Frank. Hell fucking no, and what the fuck are you even fucking doing here?”_

_Brendon smiles. He likes Frank already. “Drat, and I really wanted to learn. Guess I can’t show you a trick of my own now, huh? And, oh, yeah, I’m trying to find a ride out of state. People to be, places to see.” He deliberately skews the saying at the end. Most people tend to think he’s being cute. He’s rarely called on his phrasing._

_Frank raises an eyebrow, clearly he gets the subtext. However, he’s not nearly as impressed as Brendon wants him to be. Okay, fine then. Two can play at that game._

_He fishes the dummy ten out of his pocket. It’s back to being a sad, little one dollar bill. Brendon sets it down on the counter, making sure the waitress has already wandered off to fill everyone else’s coffee cups before working his magic._

_Frank eyes the bill like it doesn’t matter. Which, considering the asshole just robbed a liquor store for everything in the till and, presumably, the lock box under the counter, that makes a whole damn bit of sense. It’s not like he needs the chump change._

_Instead of going for a small bill, Brendon thinks big. He picks up the one, folds it in his hand, and holds it for a few seconds before unfolding it so he can set it back down near Frank’s coffee cup._

_Ben Franklin stars up at them. It’ll pass any pen or watermark check as long as it’s still in its changed state. The only things he can’t fool are machines. Maybe one day he’ll be able to do even that._

_Fuck, he’d settle for his fakes not turning back into pumpkins if he can’t have the fool all machines masters’ level achievement._

_“How did you do that?” Frank picks up the hundred dollar bill so he can hold it up near the light. Check the watermark that shouldn’t be there but is._

_Brendon grins. “Now, why would I tell you that? You won’t teach me the ways of the Jedi. So why should I reveal my magic tricks?”_

_Frank huffs, irritatedly. “What state you going to?”_

_He folds the hundred back in half and slides it to Brendon._

_“Doesn’t matter.”_

_Frank drains his coffee cup, sets a tip down on the counter, and slides off his stool. “I have a car in the lot. If you want a fucking ride, grab your shit now. I’m not going to wait.”_

_Hell if Brendon’s going to turn down an offer like that. He just knows this is going to be the adventure he’s been waiting for since he quit his job and started drifting from town to town with no purpose. How could it not be?_

Brendon finds himself laughing quietly. He loves that memory. It’s one of his favorites.

The raining outside is heavier. He just closes his eyes again. He’s not present enough to care. Frank’s already rushed on to another memory. If Brendon wants to keep him away from the more embarrassing ones, he has to act fast.

Not that he ever has anything to hide or memories he doesn’t want Frank to see. He’s a ridiculously open, open book when it comes to Frank. It’s something he’s happy with.

If he can’t have Frank any other way than this, then fine. That’s just how it’s going to be. He can deal.

*.*.*.*.*.*

There’s a DJ in a booth mixing beats. The speakers are pumping. Brendon spins around a couple macking on each other near the bar. His goal is Frank. Dick never sets himself up elsewhere.

His go-to point is _always_ the bar. Brendon doesn’t need the comfort of a home spot. Whatever, Frank likes to watch. That works for Brendon.

He’s been trying to surf the crowd for someone to take him home for the night. They’re in between scores, so cash is low. If they want to eat, they need to scrape the barrel.

In this case, that means picking someone for a one night stand, then, afterwards, raiding their place for anything of worth. It’s a shit con. One Brendon despises. However, it’s this or rob a liquor store.

Frank got good at that in the past. Brendon just thinks the setup is too dangerous to risk it anymore. Home burglary will have to do in this pinch, until they have enough funds to set something bigger up, that is.

Except.

Brendon’s not the only one working the floor of this club tonight. There’s a tall guy charming the pants off a bunch of the chicks and dudes. He’s actually really fucking good. Brendon’s impressed.

He _has_ be a natural compeller. There’s no other explanation. Which is why Brendon’s sliding up next to Frank at the bar.

“We’re poaching occupied territory. Rain Check until tomorrow. We have enough bills to last us ‘til then.”

Frank sips at his beer. “Fuck that, we’re leaving. That way we can hit up another shit hole. I’m sure you’ll find someone else there to fuck.”

If Brendon didn’t know any better, he’d think Frank was jealous of Brendon’s prospects on getting laid. Fuck that shit, Frank totally took someone to the men’s room last week and got some. Brendon hooking up for cash isn’t the same as getting laid for fun.

“Nah, I like it here. Plus, I think I found someone I’d like to blow. Since we’re off for the night, _now_ , I’m going to make my move. We’ll meet back at the car in the morning.”

He doesn’t wait for Frank’s approval. Yeah, no, not happening. If he did that shit, he’d be waiting until the cows came home. That or Frank would drag him out of the club first.

Neither of those are going to happen. Not tonight. Brendon has plans.

One of the waitresses is easy to charm into figuring out who Mister Tall Tanned and Handsome is. He’s a regular who goes by the name of Gabe. Brendon’s maybe already a little in love.

Okay, not love. But definitely lust.

He spends two hours slowly chipping away at the other prospects circling Gabe. It’s like a game of _oh, look, something shiny, please run off in that direction and get distracted by something else._ Brendon’s having a ball. He hasn’t had this much fun trying to get someone’s attention in years.

Discounting Frank, of course. No one beats Frank. There’s a chance no one ever will. Brendon’s learning to live with that truth. He’s getting better at pretending he doesn’t want more from their friendship.

So, if he wants a night off to pretend he can have anyone he wants and it not be a con, then well, he’s fucking taking that chance. Consequences be damned.

The DJ changes songs and Brendon’s thinned out enough of the herd to slide up beside Gabe.

“You’re tall, wanna dance?” It’s a shit pick-up line, but that’s the point. Nothing smooth. Straight to the point.

He’s expecting Gabe to decline. Make him work harder for it. The guy enjoys the attention and people fawning over him. Instead, Brendon gets a puff of laughter followed by an amused _’sure’._

Score one for Brendon. He wins at life. What’s made of even more win is when Gabe steers him right past the dance floor and to the hallway right before the bathrooms.

He’s crowded against the far wall before his brain can even catch up with his body, which is _so_ on board with what’s going on right now that he’s surprised he can even think at all.

“You’re good at getting rid of the competition. Even Lee ran off and I told her what you were doing.” The words are a puff of laughter against Brendon’s neck.

He shrugs. “What can I say? You’re hot and the best things are worth working for.”

Gabe laughs again before leaning down to kiss him. It’s, fuck, it’s _good_. Really, really, _damn_ good. Yeah, this, this was the best choice he’s made in awhile.

Somehow, they end up going back to Gabe’s apartment. It’s not a bad place. Solid, in a decent part of the city, and clean. Brendon doesn’t care. He’d rather move on to the main show, which judging by the foreplay going on during the cab ride over, is going to be spectacular.

He should think about selling tickets. It’s going to be that fucking epic. Wouldn’t that just completely end his and Frank’s money issues? Yet, porn star, not really on Brendon’s list of career choices. Well, drat, that rules out making money the easy way.

Whatever. He needs to get his head back in the game. He’s getting laid.

Tonight.

He’s getting laid and it’s going to be awesome.

They start shedding clothes almost immediately. By the time Brendon finds himself toppled onto a soft sheet, he’s already having trouble keeping track of everything that’s going on. That doesn’t mean he’s not participating. Just means his brain’s decided to check out.

He’s pretty sure he can handle himself just fine without higher brain functioning. Which is the last constructive thought he has before everything becomes a total blur of awesome sexy times.

When he wakes up, Gabe’s got an arm slung over his waist. It’s comfortable. Brendon goes to burrow closer when he hears a small scraping sound. Much like that of a drawer being opened slowly. It’s something Brendon’s gotten used to hearing in situations like this.

Which, fuck no. Seriously, why hasn’t Brendon officially knocked Frank the fuck out yet? This is _not_ on. They took the night off.

He’s awake now. Great.

He fishes around for his underwear after slowly squirming out from under Gabe’s arm without waking him. It takes half a second to hop into his underwear. He doesn’t bother with looking for his socks.

The plan is to kick Frank out and go back to bed. Sleep until morning. Brendon’s actually hoping he can talk Gabe into lazy sex before he has to leave. That would be doubly awesome. 

Predictably, he finds Frank pawing through a dresser drawer in what has to be Gabe’s spare room.

“What part of _take the night off_ was ununderstandable? Holy fuck, Frank. What are you doing? Gabe’s _special_ , he’s the guy I was talking about.”

Frank doesn’t fucking pay Brendon any attention. He just goes over to the spare bed and picks up a lump of something. When he shoves the pile against Brendon’s chest, it’s obvious what the pile is.

They’re his clothes.

“Get dressed. I couldn’t find your damn socks. You’re just going to have to fucking suffer. Your shoes are at the front door. When you’re fucking decent, meet me in the living room.”

And just like that Frank walks out of the room. Brendon wants to throw something at his retreating back. He drops his clothes. Like hell he’s leaving. He has a plan and he’s sticking to it. Frank can just man up and let Brendon have one fucking night to himself. 

He walks into the living room in only his underwear. “Seriously, what the _fuck_ are you doing? How did you even get in?”

Frank pokes at Gabe’s Blu Ray collection. “Memory surfed. I didn’t agree to a fucking off night. We’re strapped for cash. I don’t care if you wanted some _me time_. We have work to do.”

Brendon’s going to pull his hair out. He is. Why does Frank have to be such an asshole sometimes?

“No. We. Don’t. You’re going to go back to your car and sleep. I’m going back to the bedroom. If I’m lucky, there’ll be more sex in the morning. Then after, a shower, if Gabe’s cool with that. I’ll come find you and we can start mapping out our adjusted game plan.”

Frank glares at him. “Sorry, all I heard were whiny bitch complaints. When you’re ready to have balls again, let me know.”

Brendon growls. “Fuck you.”

Which is, of course, when Gabe wanders out into his living room in only his boxers. Even sleepy and confused, he’s still hot. Brendon’s apparently going to have issues with this. Great.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Frank steps up to the plate to say something before Brendon gets a chance to open his mouth. “Well, the plan was to steal from you while you-”

Brendon bolts for Frank. No, no, no, no. He can not have Gabe thinking this was just a con. It wasn’t. 

Gabe’s unmoving. "If you're going to steal my shit, you should probably be quieter about it."

Which is _not_ something Brendon can have. Not when he really would like to come back.

“Sorry, my best friend here is a klepto stalker. Really nice guy, most of the time. I totally wasn’t planning on robbing you.”

Frank elbows him in the stomach. “Brendon’s an idiot. We’re apparently, _not_ taking anything, but that doesn’t mean that’s not his MO a third of the time.”

Brendon shoots Frank a dirty look.

Gabe doesn’t seem happy. Fuck, Brendon’s screwed. He’s _soooo_ screwed.

“Okay, fuck you, Frank. We’re cons, but you were not a target, Gabe. I like you and if we weren’t skipping town in a week, I’d totally want to hook up as often as possible. Casual’s my go-to speed. It looks like it might be yours also.”

Frank stalks away from Brendon after the _fuck you_. He slams the front door when he leaves. Brendon really hopes Frank doesn’t leave him stranded. That would suck.

“Do I need to call the cops?” Gabe’s leaning against the hallway corner that opens up into the living room.

“Frank didn’t nick anything. I haven’t touched anything. I’d really like it if you didn’t. I swear we only do petty shit. Just enough to eat. Have a place to sleep. Nothing like the Ritz. We’re talking Motel 8 at its fanciest as our five star accommodations type of sleeping arrangements.”

Gabe sighs. “Just my luck, I finally bring someone fun home and he’s a fucking con.”

Brendon’s ears perk up at the word _fun_. He totally, totally _can_ fix this. It would be fun to have a friend. Frank has the Ways. Why can’t Brendon have someone?

“ _Fun_? That’s good though. That’s exactly how I felt. You’re awesome, man. I know it’s weird, but can we be friends? I’m totally fine with side benefits when I swing through town if you wanted that. Totally no strings attached. And I promise, next time, I’ll handcuff Frank to something so he doesn’t obliterate the afterglow.”

He’s babbling. Brendon knows he is. He just _likes_ Gabe. He can’t help it. He’s a fucking fan of competence. People who have this charm to them and know how to work their skills to their advantages.

Couple that with his obsession with showmanship and it’s no longer a wonder why he enjoys Frank’s ballsy execution of jobs and Gabe’s ability to charm a whole fucking crowd of people.

He has a weakness. So sue him. It’s not like he has anything of value anyway.

Gabe looks at him before nodding. “Just don’t make me regret this. Also I don’t want to know shit about your profession. All I know is that you and your midget buddy are traveling salesmen. That’s it.”

Brendon maybe crows a little. He totally runs up and hugs Gabe. When he pulls back, he salutes Gabe. “I’ll totally be the best fake salesman you’ve ever known. Promises. Let me get dressed and I’ll write down my email address.”

Well, Frank’s email address. Gabe doesn’t have to know that though. It’s probably best that he doesn’t until he’s had a better chance to form a more positive impression.

After dressing, Brendon ends up finding his socks in Gabe’s bedroom. He slips them on and goes for his shoes, but decides to make a detour in Gabe’s direction first. Gabe watches him silently.

“I’m sorry we woke you. Frank can be an asshole sometimes. Okay, a lot of the times. But he’s not a bad guy. He’s just an acquired taste.”

Gabe doesn’t push him away when Brendon stretches upward so he can kiss Gabe one last time. When they part, Brendon slips a post-it into Gabe’s hand before heading for the door.

He waves at Gabe as he opens the front door. “I totally had fun. We should do this again, just, you know, without the early morning interruption.” He bends and snags his shoes before leaving.

Brendon knows he should have asked for Gabe’s email in return. Just, he doesn’t want to be pushy. After what happened tonight, it has to be Gabe’s decision.

Which sucks, but what can Brendon do?

Nothing. That’s what.

*.*.*.*.*.* 

Emails are a marvelous thing. They connect people who wouldn’t be able to converse else wise. Brendon’s, hypothetically, super fucking excited this morning.

There’s a new email sitting in Frank’s inbox and it’s from Gabe. Score. It’s not a reply to a previous thread or, oddly enough, something for Frank.

Don’t get Brendon wrong okay, he’s fucking ecstatic that Frank’s talking with Gabe. That they’ve somehow found a mutual love of bad YouTube vids and have somehow totally fallen onto the path toward dudebro friendship. It’s just Brendon likes his virtual Gabe time.

He likes it a lot.

They’ve been states away for a few months. Not forever far away. Just far enough that Brendon can’t hitch a ride and visit for the night. It would be something like a few days. A few days where Frank would bitch and moan at nothing until he worked himself into a tiny ball of Rage.

It’s not something Brendon wants to deal with. He _can_ handle Frank’s rage fits. He just doesn’t prefer them, thank you very much.

However, by next week, that’s not going to matter because they’re going back to the city. Brendon doesn’t know why. Frank got to pick their destination this go around. 

Fuck if Brendon’s going to mess with a good thing. He’s totally going to make plans right the fuck now to spend time with Gabe. The last three times they hung out started with some form of sex, yet, always ended with hanging out.

It’s weird. Brendon doesn’t know how to explain it. He _likes_ Gabe. He really fucking enjoys the sex. However, he’s finding out that, huh, hanging out, that’s also fun as shit. He’d love to just chill with Gabe whenever he could.

Maybe it’s the fact that Brendon was super fucking worried that Gabe would never email him. Maybe it’s just that he hasn’t had another friend since Frank and he’s skewed out the ass when it comes to human interaction. Whatever it is, Brendon’s starting to feel …

Well, he doesn’t know how he feels. That’s the whole point. The master problem, so to speak.

Cons are starting to be, gasp, boring. Frank, luckily, continues to be interesting in all his asshole glory. Brendon doesn’t know what he’d do if Frank started to lose his shine. That would be a sad day.

Whatever.

Brendon’s not going to think about all this. He has Frank’s computer all to himself until Frank gets out of the shower. He’s going to abuse the fuck out of that. There’s some fluffy cat macros he really wants to send to Gabe before he even begins to bring up future hanging out plans.

He also really wants to talk about Gabe’s boring-ass job and just generally find out how Gabe’s doing. 

*.*.*.*.*.* 

The restaurant is tacky. Brendon _loves_ it. Every thirty minutes, there’s a monsoon and the animatronic animals go crazy with calls. The food might be overpriced, with a terrible selection for herbivore people, but Brendon’s not exactly focusing on that.

It’s hard to when Gabe’s been charming the wait staff the whole time they’ve been here. A smile and a slight tilt of his head got them comped drinks and dessert. If Brendon wasn’t sure this was a bro moment, he’d begin to wonder if this was a _date._

But that’s ridiculous. Gabe doesn’t date. He has trouble getting someone to settle down with him long enough for a relationship to bloom. Or whatever flower metaphor is supposed to go there.

Brendon doesn’t know. He hasn’t dated in years. Not since he skipped out of his dead-end job and from under his parent’s watchful gaze of bland _goodness._ It’s not like he actually has the time or distance to date anyone.

And well, this is Gabe and Brendon LIKES him. In a bold-faced, capital letters covered in glitter way. But they’re cool as bros-with-benefits. For now.

There’s also, maybe, probably, most certainly, the little rage-filled exclamation mark that is Frank. Brendon’s still madly, deeply, in secret love with the asshole. And there’s no telling _how_ Frank would react during their newest job if he found out Brendon was _dating_ Gabe. 

Like, sure, Frank likes Gabe, now. It’s been a year since they met. The emails have spiraled into something beautiful. A hodgepodge mixture of adorable animal youtube videos peppered with Frank complaining about people while Gabe gives in and trash talks assholes.

However, that doesn’t mean Frank’s ready to accept another member into his exclusive club of humans he can tolerate. Brendon already has to listen to him whine when Brendon goes out to tumble into Gabe’s bed. It’s almost like Frank’s jealous. If he could be jealous.

Which he isn’t. Because Frank only thinks of Brendon as a partner. Which is sad.

Brendon downs his glass of wine. Gabe quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Is this a date?” There; Brendon’s blurted it out. It can’t fester in his thoughts anymore.

Gabe doesn’t frown or miss a beat. “It’s a brodate of cheese and shopping after.”

Brendon sighs before laughing. “Sorry. I just.” he waves his hand between them. “was getting vibes mixed up. Like we’re cool and you’re fucking awesome, but like. I can’t _stay_ and that would be shitty. Not to mention Frank ...”

Gabe nods and takes a sip of his own wine. He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. 

Brendon listens to the recorded jungle sounds. Maybe he’s being stupid. Strike that, if Frank was here and not berating shitty daytime TV in their hotel room, he’d complain _loudly_ that Brendon’s the stupidest motherfucker to ever exist.

In a fond way, of course.

“Why don’t you ask Frank out?”

That’s the LAST thing in the world Brendon expected to hear come from Gabe’s lips. 

“Dude, no. We’re best friends and business partners. Not buddies under the sheets. That’s us. Unless you’re not cool with the name. We can change that. Bros-With-Hot-Sex-and-Conversation-Benefits. Has a nice ring to it.”

Gabe laughs.

The sound makes Brendon smile. Fuck. Fuck. He’s just as gone on Gabe as he is for Frank. Well, shit.

Whatever. Brendon can handle this. He’s cool.

When the check comes, he pulls out a few twenties to cover the bill. Gabe eyes his Jacksons with unhappiness.

“Chill, brodude, they’re real. I got them from a bank and everything.” Brendon’s smile is bright and the waitress only takes the exchange as a joke. 

Thank fuck it’s a common fucking thing in the service industry for normal non-con people to make jokes about counterfeiting currency. Gabe doesn’t need to know that Brendon picked a bank at midday yesterday when they rolled into the area to ask about opening an account only to gain info to _shop around_ and ask a favor of changing a hundred for him before leaving.

The holographic blue line and coppery dancing bell aren’t hard to fake when Brendon _knows_ what he wants to be seen. The illusion holds as long as he has a good grasp on what he wants a person to see. It’s only when he’s given up that the shining carriages turn back into pumpkins.

It’s why the ten Brendon had that night he met Frank turned back into a one in his pocket when the liquor store was a bust. Brendon might not be a master Jedi like Frank or Gabe, but he’s got his own tricks up his sleeve.

Not that Brendon’s going to show Gabe. Dude might freak, even if he’s the most charming compeller Brendon’s ever met. Who knows what he’d do if he found out that Brendon and Frank are basically infringing on his territory.

It would be a sad day if Gabe got angry over Brendon and Frank being just as shiny and special. So, for now, Gabe doesn’t need to know. They can be normal friends who don’t know the other is a secret superhero who doesn’t do superhero things.

Brendon can be Clark Kent, effortlessly. Not that he likes Superman. Kent’s just the only alter ego Brendon knows. Frankie’s the one with the massive comic book knowledge.

It’s one of the ways he keeps Brendon out of his email conversations with the Ways. A wall of comic jargon and events is an effortless block against snooping.

“Lets go raid the Disney store for glittery sunglasses too small for our faces.” Gabe places a ten on the table for tip and when the waitress comes back with Brendon’s change, he adds it to Gabe’s tip.

“Dibs on Jasmine.”

*.*.*.*.*.* 

Frank’s sitting in the driver’s seat of their newest car when Brendon comes out of the UPS Store with a stack of colorful flyers for their _lost_ puppy, Ivan the Chewer. The sleek sedan’s door is popped so Frank can air out his rented suit. Brendon’s only has a fraction of the “trapped in a bag for months” smell because he’s an average size. 

He doesn’t have to stand on boxes to reach things on shelves. Therefore, when he needs a suit, it’s easy to find something to _borrow_ or _rent._ Though, it never gets old cracking jokes at Frank’s stature especially when it’s Frank who decides they should go for the Condos of Fab con.

If they pulled CoF more often, maybe they’d actually carry around garment bags. Only, these jobs tend to need a fuck-ton of finesse and have a high probability of tanking. They’ve run CoF three times over the years. Of those three times, they’ve come out victorious once, almost been caught once, and had to cut out of town early the first time.

You don’t poach territory. Brendon doesn’t much care for spending a weekend in a tiny room watching the goriest of horror movie deaths on repeat while tied to a chair in a space that isn’t heated in winter. Which doesn’t sound like torture.

But when you have a telepath sit in your head, trying to fuck you up for an hour before realizing you can’t be rearranged, yet have a weak stomach for horrific death, it becomes a _thing_. Frank only fared better by a few hours. He never talks about what happened or how he got loose of his ropes. 

Brendon doesn’t ask. It isn’t important enough to start a ragefest over. What is, is that they were able to convince the Thug Patrol to let them go. They’ve never been back to that special area of the Eastern Seaboard.

How they ever decided to give CoF a second try is a mystery. Well, not really. Brendon was curious and confident that a second go would be a charm. It was. The take was off the chart. They had money for six months, easy, without many manipulations.

Which is, basically, why last time failed. Not because they got cocky or greedy. Nah, it was because it worked, so they were lulled into a false sense of security. No one in the area scoped out as gifted and the people seemed to eat the con right up.

Until one of the bored housewives told her out-of-town brother the happy news of her soon to be acquired timeshare condo. Of course the guy _had_ to be a small town sheriff’s deputy. It took only one day for Mister Deputy to see through the ruse.

They skipped town the second Frank figured out the last-minute meeting was called so they could be arrested for fraud. It was possible they could have stayed. Frank MiBed the crowd pretty heavily. But the magic was gone.

No sense in hanging around after a bust.

Why Frank thinks this is a solid plan is beyond Brendon. But whatever, he’s already adjusted the license plate so it reads VACA-1. If they fail, they fail. If they don’t, yay, money and another successful job to remember fondly.

Frank doesn’t say anything during the drive from the UPS Store to their first house. Cyndi Lauper’s blasting from the speakers. Brendon’s fingers itch to switch the radio from 80’s happy to something more modern just to fuck with Frank’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” vibe. 

He doesn’t. It’s a bit of a pain in the ass, but he can’t turn this full stack of copies into vacation home fliers in a flash. It’s more meticulous than that. Brendon has to study the template they printed at a library an hour away, in the city. Then it’s manipulating each page until it looks exactly like the template.

One of the reasons they failed the last time was because their vacation flyers could be traced to a Kinko’s thirty minutes away. Brendon isn’t making that mistake a second time. He’s learned that lesson, even if he’s already bored.

it’s a newer feeling. Being bored at the start of a job, no matter how nit-picky the setup has to be, is something Brendon’s not used to. He’s _always_ eager at the beginning. Bouncing in his seat.

When they park on the curb near their first house, Frank leans into the back seat of their silver Impala to snag Brendon’s suit pocket boxes of costume jewelry from his duffel.

“Condos of Fab is our cover. We’re going to mix shit up. Try something new. While I distract our marks with the fucking presentation, find a way to snoop around for valuables.”

Brendon finds his grin turning from rusty to blinding. He’s a fan of CaL. Case and Lift jobs have to be just as meticulous, but they’re more time sensitive. And deal with loads of interpersonal cue points being met. 

Not to mention, their success rate with CaL cons are nearly flawless. Of the hundreds of times they’ve done this song and dance, they’ve only been pinned once. A lawyer with a watch worth several K didn’t want to part with it. If it wasn’t for Frank’s manipulation techniques and Brendon’s own ability to think on the fly, they’d have been carted off to jail by the nice local boys in blue.

“You’re the best, Frankie.” Brendon leans in and smacks a wet kiss against Frank’s cheek.

In retaliation, Frank shoves Brendon’s shoulder hard, “Save that shit for Saporta.”

For half a second, Frank seems chilly and rigid. It’s not a good look on him. Brendon would know. That’s how Frank was when they first met, hard and cold. He’s melted and loosened over the years. It’s a better look for him. Less severe.

“Awwww, Frankie, you know you’ll always be my first love.” And then Brendon’s bolting out the passenger seat to stand and straighten his suit with one hand while the other holds his stack of pristine vacation flyers.

Best if Frank doesn’t get a chance to figure out how truthful Brendon’s being. Considering the only thing keeping Brendon’s breathing regular and not panicky over saying too much is the con. He can do this, the act of conning people is effortless to slide into and it’s the quickest way for Brendon to forget the outside world.

Whatever happens they still have this.

*.*.*.*.*.* 

The pit is brutal. Brendon watches the churning of frantic limbs from a safe spot at the bar. On any normal victory night, he’d be right in the fray with Frank, enjoying the energy of the crowd. He’s just not feeling it this time.

The band playing is called something weird like Turbo Limpet or Flash Mollusk. Brendon’s not actually sure because they’ve yelled out both names from the stage. Neither seem to fit the crashing beat swarmed with as many uncomplimentary blends of music to be produced by humanity without a Ska Band being present.

The flyer partially stuck to the drying surface of the bartop doesn’t mention either names, though, there is a band called Zebra Mussel Fever second billed. Brendon doesn’t know what posses a person to name their band after an invasive aquatic inhabitant. But then the first band on the list was apparently called Hot Monkey Shit.

Brendon and Frank didn’t show up until that band was breaking down their equipment. Which is probably a great thing. If Turbo Mollusk Fever is horrible, there’s no telling how terrible HMS was. 

Maybe the last set of the night will be better. Brendon can’t even read the band name because the poster is warped and the ink’s runny from someone setting their condensating beer on it like its some hot pink napkin coaster.

Another Corona is set next to Brendon’s neat row of empty bottles. Brendon pays on automatic. Their marathon CaL run was highly profitable, even without a fence. That’s the joys of technically _not_ stealing something. If some trophy housewife went to check her jewelry after they bounced, she’d only notice whatever she wanted to because Brendon’s still actively willing the cheapo fake ring into a simulation of her prized possession.

Brendon’s learned to pick only items that their original owners rarely wear. The types of jewelry that’s bought to say that you have it. Like that tennis bracelet Mary Q. Armcandy got on her birthday from her husband to wear to the country club once a year. 

Or the high quality shit grandmothers give their granddaughters to teach them the wonders and joys of owning pretty, shiny things that make you sparkle. The bracelets, earrings, and rings that get shoved in mahogany boxes to occasionally see the light of day.

There’s also the cufflinks James Everyone buys for his first serious job interview, but then never wears again. Or the watches and tie pins that lay forgotten in nightstand tables collecting dust.

Basically, things a person won’t necessarily _miss_ if they’re taken. 

It’s only one type of con. And it’s mostly thievery with a heavy splash of charm to cover their tracks. Unless Frank decides to fiddle with everyone’s memories on what they own. Ever since Mister I Love My Rolex, Frankie’s been a bit more proactive with his own abilities.

Turbo Mussel Fever ends their set rather messily. Music filters through the speakers while everything’s broken down. It’s some band Brendon doesn’t know. But then, if it isn’t played on the radio or XM, there’s a very low likelihood that he’s heard it before. It’s not like they get to stay in one place to _collect_ more eclectic genres.

Brendon downs the rest of his beer. He honestly doesn’t know _why_ this thorn is burrowing under his skin. He’s preferred this nomadic lifestyle since the very beginning. 

Living in one place isn’t interesting. Growing roots assumes a person has a steady job, home, and means of transportation. Brendon has none of those.

Gabe’s offered to help if Brendon decided to go back on grid. The cost would be going legit. Which is understandable, conning isn’t something that can be _safely_ done while stationary. Unless you want to get caught sooner rather than later.

Brendon’s thought about it the past four months. Ever since their first CaL an hour outside of Gabe’s city. Quitting. Settling down.

There’s only one problem.

“What the fuck are you doing perched on a bar stool? I was looking for you, asshole.” Frank’s running fingers through his sweaty hair when he shoves between Brendon and the bar for a beer of his own.

Brendon salutes Frank with his newest bottle. “Tonight, I’m playing the role of tiny rageball with an ass magnet that’s attracted to bar stools.”

“Ha ha, asshole. What happened to _I love moshing because it’s aggressive shove dancing_?”

Brendon shrugs. He knows he should be less avoidant, let Frank bask in the glow of another successful job with his partner in crime. But Brendon can’t shake this almost _need_ to make his victory day tomorrow something extremely bland like roller skating and pizza with a round out to the night being bowling and beer.

It won’t happen. Mostly because Frank would wonder why and sit in Brendon’s head to see what’s wrong. He might not like to say it verbally, but Frankie’s a softie when it comes to Brendon being sad or worked up over something.

In a perfect world, Brendon and Frank could settle down together next door to Gabe. Brendon could work on his master plan to get Frank and Gabe into bed together. And then they could be a happy trio doing whatever they pleased as long as those plots weren’t breaking laws.

Frank could work at a shitty bar bouncing. It would be fucking hilarious. Frank’s tiny, but he packs one hell of a punch, mentally and literally. 

Brendon could do anything. He wouldn’t have his parents breathing down his neck with obligations and expectations. He and Frank would still be free. They’d just have a home they could invite Frank’s friends over during vacations.

It’s not like Frank’s moving any faster on the front of visiting the Ways and Toro. If they settled down, Brendon could email Gerard and Mikey and set up a surprise visit. Frank wouldn’t be happy about it, yet, he’d adjust quickly and love every minute.

Frank steals Brendon’s Corona when he sets it down. After the bottle’s empty, he signals for a new round. His eyes are slightly unfocused.

And Brendon knows why. He can feel Frank curling up in the back of his thoughts and memories. Like an adorable baby dragon that thinks itself fierce even when the only fire it can breathe are cute little puffs of gray smoke.

If they weren’t in the middle of a crush of people, Brendon would highly enjoy the experience. As it is, he has to do something before they both fall into comfortable head space together and nothing else around them matters.

The clear course of action is to wrap his hand around Frank’s wrist and tug them out into the reforming mosh crowd as Parallel Murder Plots blasts into the first song of their set. Nothing distracts Frank quicker than screamo with a lightning fast guitar riff.

Except for maybe when Brendon does something outlandish to purposefully detract from the events at hand.

*.*.*.*.*.* 

Leaves swirl by in a graceful pattern of infinities and full circumferences. Daylight fades in increments. Fall is in its heyday and enjoying every moment.

Brendon’s got the driver’s seat of their newest caddy laid as far back as it’ll go. They have a few hours before anyone decides to check in on them. Most parks aren’t against nappers in the parking lot, as long as you're not trying to stay overnight. Especially, if there’s a Walmart or Target nearby with employees who like to catch naps during lunch or before shifts somewhere with a better view than of the SUV parked in the next space with screaming kids and flustered parents trying to pack their trunk efficiently.

Frank’s in the backseat, sprawled out on his back. If Brendon reaches his hand out past his head, he can rest fingers on Frank’s pant leg, trace crinkles in the jean material until Frank gets agitated enough to jiggle his leg and dislodge Brendon’s wandering digits. 

“We should go on a vacation. A baby birdie tells me that Gerard and Mikey want to throw you a surprise party.”

Frank _hmmms_ mentally.

He’s been more agreeable lately with the thought of visiting the Western Seaboard region. However, something keeps restraining him. Brendon thinks it might be worry.

Worry that Frank might accidentally harm his friends. Or that they might realize how different he really _is_ and kick him to the curb physically and digitally. Frank lives for his emails with the Ways as much as he’s starting to for the ones sent by Gabe.

“It’s your birthday at the end of the month. We could make it with days to spare if we head out in the morning.”

There’s another noncommittal _hmmm_ from Frank before he lazily dives into watching Brendon’s first remembered birthday party. Which is a nice way of mic dropping to illustrate a point without being overly asshole-y about it.

From there, Frank swims through birthday after birthday until he gets to the first one they celebrated together.

_Diner patrons chatter in the background while silverware clatters against ceramic plates. Brendon’s studying the menu fastidiously. Last time he ordered waffles at a roadside diner, he ended up with some multi-grain monstrosity that was surprising in context to where they were._

_No one should offer an option for cardboard waffles when every other item on the menu is heart disease central. Nor should they make the multi-grain part of the selection a tiny font that’s barely readable. Brendon only ate them because he was hungry and they had a long day ahead of them._

_Today isn’t the case. This rainy day in April is free up. They’ll be back on the road tomorrow, on a quest for a new job. Brendon’s excited. He’s already rolled three packets of ketchup into little shiny, silver and red marbles._

_No one saw him. Which is awesome. He can roll them across the tabletop without weird looks. The waitress even asked where he bought his cool, bloody marbles. Apparently, the waitress, Dianna, has a younger brother into glass and plastic marbles and he’d love something like what Brendon has._

_If Brendon didn’t know for a fact that they’d return to ketchup packets within the next thirty minutes he’d think about selling them to her. But that goes beyond conning into douchey. Brendon’s not that kind of guy._

_Even if Frank’s giving him a look that screams **just give them to her for a price** at the top of its nonvocal little lungs._

_Dianna comes back with their waters and Brendon decides that instead of waffles, he wants pancakes. Nothing says Happy Birthday more than celebratory pancakes topped with chocolate syrup and whipped cream._

_Frank sighs and orders the waffles with chocolate chips, hold the whipped topping._

_Brendon shakes his head. “Why you have to hate on the Cool Whip?”_

_“It’s not like they even fucking serve Cool Whip, Brendon. It’s heavy cream, sugar, and a milk substitute beat together until it’s fucking dead. I’m not murdering a pound of sugar like you are.”_

_Which isn’t true. It’s not a pound of sugar. Frank just likes to be an asshole on the best of days._

_“Birthday dude gets to do whatever he wants.”_

_Frank quirks an eyebrow at that. He’s up and out of the booth before Brendon can figure out why. Eight months running together and Frank’s still equal parts a mystery and the openest book Brendon’s ever read. Which is equally as intriguing and irritating as it was that first week they traveled together._

_Brendon got to see exactly how Frank stole cars and Frank got a first-hand crash course in Brendon’s slight of currency. Since then, they’ve augmented their styles to coexist. Brendon spends hours coaxing conversation out of Frank by talking about his own past. Frank mostly station surfs for music he enjoys with intermittent bursts of information liberally dipped in creative curses and his undying love of his long-distance besties who are as normal as normal can be._

_They’ve bonded over this on several occasions. Especially after Brendon took the initiative to send the Way brothers a picture of Frank in a cowboy hat sitting on an old animatronic horse outside of a Western Wear Express somewhere in the Midwest. Since then, Brendon’s been their second favorite person._

_He even gets emails. Not as many as Frank and not as frequent. But they’re still there._

_It’s a battle won. Brendon has a family again. This one is just a little bent with some tarnished spots around the edges. Nothing that a little care and attention won’t smooth with time._

_Frank slides back into the booth with a wicked smirk on his face._

_“Someone looks pleased with themselves. Did you get a waitress to blow you in the bathroom?”_

_It’s a valid assumption to land on. Frank doesn’t hook up all that often, but it does happen regularly enough that Brendon’s stuffed down his schoolboy crush. He just can’t help that Frank’s hot._

_Or that he’s highly capable of wiping everyone in this diner. If he wanted to, he could erase the last hour and tell everyone to head home and no one would be the wiser. It’s a major turn on._

_Brendon’s always had an attraction to confident, capable people. In high school, it was his study partner in Late American History. Sandie ran for class president with a firm grasp on what she wanted._

_After he graduated, it was the night supervisor at the grocery store across the strip mall from where he worked. Derek never let anyone walk over him and he knew how to fix any retail issue that popped up._

_In both of those cases, like now, Brendon’s stuck in this gray area of knowing the person he likes but not being in a position to do anything about it. There’s no telling what Frank would do if Brendon made a move._

_Like, Frank might not be discriminate with his sexual partners, however, that doesn’t mean he’s down for sexing Brendon up. Not to mention, Brendon also really wants to keep Frank as a close friend. They work excellently as partners and to lose that would suck in the worst way._

_“Why would I tell you that?” Frank’s voice is affronted._

_Which would be adorable if it wasn’t weird as shit. Frank’s totally cool with hook-ups but not spilling. It’s odd. Brendon’s never known a dude who didn’t want to aggravate his bros by going on in great detail about his exploits._

_Brendon shrugs. It doesn’t really matter. Frank’s under no obligations to tell Brendon shit about his sex life._

_However, speculating which waitress Frank slipped off with, is a complete bummer. Brendon shoves the thought away, forcefully. This is his birthday. No depressing or melancholy thoughts are allowed._

_“Happy Happy Birthday. Happy Happy Bright Birthday to you. It’s your Birthday and you’re visiting. Happy Birthday to you.” A crescent of waitstaff has washed against the shore of their booth in a crescendo of off-pitch vocals and discordant clapping._

_It’s amazing in how awful it is. Brendon adores the effort. He feels special._

_His stack of pancakes has an unlit candle sticking out of the whipped cream topping. Frank hums along to the singing, lips still curled into a victorious smirk until Brendon leans over and ruffles his hair, fondly._

_“I knew you were the best, Frankie. I love this. Best birthday ever.”_

_Frank’s voice drops into a rumbly mutter. “How is this the damn best?”_

_Brendon refuses to answer while eating._

_Frank digs into his waffle after dubiously watching Brendon dive into his stack of too much whipped cream and three too many pancakes._

_After the diner, they hit a matinee of something animated that Brendon’s never heard of. It’s just the right amount of adorable and cute that by the time they’re back to their hotel room, Brendon’s riding on a happy high. The world could end right now and Brendon would be hard pressed to care._

_That’s how good a day it’s been. Even without gifts. Which become trite when you don’t have the packing room for needless trinkets. Brendon’s already sporting a new shirt Frank got him yesterday when they went clothes shopping to replace some of the items with too many holes to be worn without being indecent._

_What more could he want?_

_Nothing._

_Well, okay. Frank professing his undying love for Brendon would be the best thing to ever happen. But that’s not going to happen so Brendon’s just going to bask in this glow._

_“Seriously, this has been the best birthday to ever exist. You’re the best guy in all of the world, Frankie. Birthday pancakes, animated films with cute animals, and milkshakes that tasted liked I was drinking a sugary cloud of awesome. All my dreams have now come true.”_

_Brendon tugs his shoes off and lets himself fall backwards, the mattress of their hotel bed trying to eat him instantly. It makes him giggle._

_When he looks up to find why Frank’s been quiet, he notices that Frank’s just staring at him, confused. As if Brendon’s somehow stumped him._

_“You have to be fucking kidding me, Brendon.” Frank’s arms raise to the ceiling, while his fingers jiggle as emphasis. “I’ve spent the whole week listening to you regale old stories of family birthdays. How in the hell does this trump those?”_

_It’s hard to describe._

_Maybe it’s that Frank took the time to plan things he knew Brendon would love. Maybe it’s that there’s nothing hand-me-down about the affair. Maybe it’s just that as the years piled on top of each other, Brendon’s family got harder and harder to navigate and birthdays became something to mentally worry about._

_Figurative minefields might not be as physically dangerous, but they’re still painful, emotionally and psychologically._

_Brendon sits up and pats the mattress to his right. “If you wanted to spy on my memories, you could have just asked, Frankie.” He puts as much humor and challenge in his voice that he can._

_Frank’s been in Brendon’s head before. Nothing intense, even if it’s extremely noticeable, like a cat basking in the glow of early morning sunshine. Frank tends to surface perch in Brendon’s fleeting memory thoughts when things get hectic and he needs a moment before wiping someone._

_Thankfully, he can’t actually hear Brendon’s thoughts, or translate emotions into anything more complicated than something heavily generalized as either positive or negative. If he could do either of those things, Brendon might have a problem with his privacy being infringed on. But Frank can’t do either of those things, so what does it matter if he centers himself by watching Brendon barely remember the time he ate a dirt and grass cake because his brother told him it tasted good?_

_Another great fucking thing is that Brendon’s seemingly immune to Frank’s Jedi mind tricks. Which is cool. Brendon doesn’t have to worry about one day waking up to find Frank’s vanished without a trace with the unwanted misinformation that Frank never existed and Brendon was only ever traveling alone._

_That would be the worst fucking thing to ever happen. Brendon shudders slightly just thinking about that happening. It’s definitely one of his scarier nightmares._

_Frank sits gingerly at Brendon’s side. He’s apprehensive. Which is understandable. There are few people out there who can withstand Frank traipsing around in their heads without the insides being rearranged._

_“Come on, Frankie. I know you’re curious. I can tell when you’re snooping. I’m giving you a free pass here. You going to use it or … not.”_

_Brendon’s voice fades into a dim crack when Frank stretches mentally to slowly card through Brendon’s older memories. He really is like a kitten or maybe a lazy dragon in how he moves. The sensation should be weird, but it’s oddly soothing._

_Brendon could fall asleep like this, Frank at his side mentally and physically, while dusty laughter bubbles up in his head as a faded memory plays behind his eyelids._

By the time Brendon blinks his eyes open leisurely, warm yellow light is pooling in spots from the street light several feet from them. Frank’s knuckles scrape against the glass as he stretches. The sound is barely there but everywhere.

“So, hotel or veggie burgers?” 

Frank climbs into the passenger seat like a baby giraffe, all limbs. It’s adorable and hilarious. For someone so compact and solid, he’s perfect at pretending to be animals with height when he’s not thinking about it.

Or more like when he’s coming out of their shared head space, calm and happy.

That doesn’t make it any less cute to bear witness to.

Brendon adjusts his seat and stretches the best he can in the driver’s seat while he gives Frank a minute to decide.

“Veggie burgers and then we’re fucking finding a place with a hot tub. Screw Motel 8 for once. I want a bath with hot water that doesn’t stop.”

“And the company of Mister Bubble.” Brendon tacks on happily as he’s starting the engine.

“Fuck you and Mister Bubble.” Frank’s surly tone lacks its usual ire.

“Kinky.” Brendon can’t even finish the word before he’s giggling.

Frank joins in for a second then coughs to mask his laughter. “Just drive.”

That, Brendon can do easily.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Divorce Court is barely interesting. However, the selection of things to watch are slim at midday. Though, Gabe’s off work for the day and live chatting his opinions at Brendon. That makes the episode less meh.

Installing instant messenger on Frank’s laptop was an excellent idea. Even if Frank complained all last month about hard drive space and viruses. Asshole doesn’t get to nag about malware and trojans when he looks up more porn than Brendon.

There’s way more video files in the recycle bin after Frank’s marathon usage sessions. Some of the titles are funny puns off classic movies. Brendon laughed his ass off for an hour after finding Lord of the G-Strings in the trash folder. 

Softcore is rarely Frankie’s style. Except now, since he’s watching shit with Gabe on free nights.

Yeah, Brendon did _not_ see that one _coming_. Frank and Gabe watching porn via the internet together. Honestly, Brendon was doing them both a favor by installing a chat client. It’s much more efficient than leaving an email window open and trying to type into the tabbed screen than just having a tiny square floating to the right of the video.

Give it another week and Brendon’s already plotting to crash the party. The three of them can watch porn _together._ It’ll be fun. 

A new experience for all of them.

Divorce Court ends with a defendant angrily talking to the cameras. Brendon barely looks up from the computer screen. He’s too busy cping a link to a story about a momma cobra protecting a little kid in a well to care what big hair lady thinks about her ex-husband winning the case.

Gabe loves everything to deal with snakes, so it’s a much better time waster. Even if Brendon spends twenty minutes in a wiki link spiral after Gabe sends him links to cobras and elapids. It happens every time. 

Gabe will send him something about snakes and Brendon will skim until something new catches his attention. After that, he’ll wonderingly chatter to Gabe about interesting facts while Gabe presumably grins from his apartment at addicting Brendon to science facts.

A commercial for Nissan SUVs pops up. It’s distracting.

**nickedandknockedover:** _Nissans can’t snowboard. Fuck this commercial and it’s content warning. Of Course SUVs can’t snowboard or halfpipe it up. Who in their right might would believe that?_

**tehGreatCobraLiVeS:** _Little kids? Old people? Anyone who believes magical realism is a fact and not a fantasy genre?_

Brendon sticks his tongue out at the computer screen.

**nickedandknockedover:** _Magical Realism IS a fact. The world’s glittery and special and magical. :p_

**nickedandknockedover:** _don’t break the illusion for me. It’s the only way I sleep at night._

**tehGreatCobraLiVeS:** _not true :) you sleep in several different positions at night. Have pictorial proof._

Of course Gabe does. When Brendon visits, if he falls asleep and Gabe wakes up or is still awake, he’ll take pictures of Brendon with his phone. Brendon has yet to decide if that’s creepy or adorable.

He’s mostly leaning toward adorable.

**nickedandknockedover:** _Of course you do. Kinky motherfucker. I bet you and Frank have all the dirty fantasies ever to share with each other._

**tehGreatCobraLiVeS:** _Maybe ;) maybe not. You’ll never know *devious laughter*_

**tehGreatCobraLiVeS:** turn to PBS. There’s a cartoon on you might like. You can thank me later when you’re addicted.

Brendon flips over to the Public Broadcast Station. There is _indeed_ a cartoon on. Brendon might, possibly, maybe, have fallen in love with it in seconds. Not that he’s going to tell Gabe that.

Some things are better left secret.

The hotel door opens with a creak. Frank slips in laden with take-out bags.

“Fucking stop cyber sexing Gabe up and get your ass over here.”

Brendon signs out of chat after sending Gabe a message saying Frank’s back. When he logs back in later chances are high, they’ll be a reply of Gabe laughing at Brendon’s newest nickname for Frankie, the Tiny Terrirany.

“Frankie, my Frankie, was the lunch rush at the Chinese place down the block _that_ terrible?” Brendon sits opposite Frank at the small room table and folds his hands in front of him.

Frank’s glare could melt Brendon’s face clean off. If he wasn’t immune. It’s another of his special _not_ super powers. Looks like it might also be another of Gabe’s too. 

Score.

Anyone who can continue existing around Frank for long periods of time without wanting to punch him is a rare breed. Gabe’s done that, both digitally and, most recently, physically.

Brendon’s _still_ floating happily in the clouds over last month. 

He and Frank were only passing through the city to go somewhere else. But Frank let them crash with Gabe for a three day weekend Gabe had vacation time for. They got to be tourists Gabe gladly showed around in the most ridiculous ways.

There’s a whole handful of pictures of Frank and Brendon Gabe took that Brendon has in a folder on Frank’s computer for easy access. The Ways have already gotten one email with several pictures attachments including one of Frank grumpily pushing wet hair out of his face after he pushed Brendon into a huge-ass fountain and Brendon tugged him in for revenge company.

It’s a good memory to have. Something Frank’s sure to revisit in the future. If not, there are many more where that came from.

Brendon also has a shitty neon magnet to his name that proves it happened. Hopefully, the roll of scotch tape he’s squirreled away won’t get stolen by Frank. Which isn’t likely, since Frank’s the one waking up with both of their souvenir magnets taped to his cheeks like some freaky refrigerator chipmunk every few mornings as a reminder of how much _fun_ he had hanging with Gabe.

“Next time, you get the rice and dumplings.” Frank passes Brendon a carton of white rice and veggie stir-fry.

“Sure thing, Frank. All the chocolate doughnuts we can eat for lunch next time, got it.” 

Brendon’s cheeky grin gets Frank to shake his head. Which is a win because Frank just tucks into his own meal with a tiny smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

*.*.*.*.*.*

“Why can’t we fucking settle somewhere for six months, huh, Frankie?” Brendon’s angrier than he’s been in forever. His voice raising until it crackles with pent up tension “It’s just _six_ fucking months. We’re not going to turn into pumpkins and rot away if we stay in one place.”

Frank shakes his head and glares at Brendon with an intensity that’s rarely been seen. “You want to leave and play goddamned motherfucking _house_ with Saporta, then fucking _go!_ Don’t let me stop you.”

Brendon’s quiet for a beat. They’ve fought before. That isn’t new. This venom, however, _is._ Frank’s _never_ sounded harder, sharper than he does now. 

Brendon _hates_ it. This isn’t the person he knows.

“That’s not what I said, Frank. I’m not leaving you for Gabe.” Which should be a hilarious statement considering how fucking platonic Brendon and Frank’s relationship has been these past ten or so years. Only it isn’t. It’s the farthest thing from ridiculous as possible.

All Brendon did was look up short-term lease apartments and duplexes near where Gabe lives. Hell, Brendon fucking even looked up places near the small Cali town where the Ways and Toro live. Frank just happened to _not_ see those tabs and jumped to conclusions. 

And here they are. Fucking yelling at each other over something that _shouldn’t_ be an issue. They can have a six month vacation away from work. How is that a fucking bad idea?

The longest span of time they’d rested between jobs was three weeks, ONCE, when Frank broke two of his fingers after falling out of a two story window. That was seven years ago.

Brendon still loves the con. He does. But it’s souring on his tongue. He’s burning the fuck out. Maybe a few months pretending to be normal will recharge his batteries.

Maybe it won’t. But it’s better fucking trying to save their lifestyle than continuing on like something isn’t changing until everything feels dead, leaving behind nothing more than obligations and survival.

Fuck, Frank’s been just as listless the past year, or longer. He won’t utter a damn word against the cons they’ve ran. But it’s in his eyes and the downturn of his lips when their take is surprisingly good for a small job. Something that used to turn those frowns upside down, easily, no longer does the trick.

“Fucking _come on_ , Brendon. You’ve been attached to his dick since you first sucked it.”

The raw jealously dripping from Frank’s words is like a punch to the gut. It’s enough to stun Brendon.

“Yeah? And I’ve been attached to yours since we first fucking met and I’ve never even touched it.”

Frank splutters. “What in shitty fucking hell does that even mean?”

“So what if I’m fucking fond of Gabe? That doesn’t mean I want to run off and adopt babies with him. Yes, I fucking _like_ him, Frank. But I’ve liked you for longer, in all your asshole glory and I haven’t skipped out on you.”

Frank’s still angry. But he’s also confused. It’s in the way his fingers clench and unclench like he’s suddenly unsure if his rage is warranted.

Brendon finds he doesn’t fucking care. He’s imagined thousands of ways to tell Frank he loves him. Unsurprisingly enough, several were through arguments. Fuck, it’s a damn miracle they survived this many years without Brendon just blurting that shit out.

But, then, he had. In subtle ways. A _you’re the greatest_ here, and _how did I live without you for nineteen years_ there. In all the ways Brendon would happily exclaim how awesome Frank is.

Sure, Brendon _knows_ he should have said something sooner. He just didn’t because if he lost Frank, what else does he have?

Nothing.

Not really.

“Bullshit, Urie.” Throwing out Brendon’s last name is Frank’s way of taking control of his confusion and turning it into fuel for his rage. “You haven’t said _shit_ to me about _what_? being in secret _love_? with me for almost a decade. You’re a fucking blabber mouth when it comes to personal information. So fucking _bullshit_.

Frank spits the last work with such bile, Brendon ends up with his fist slamming against the wall he’s backed himself against without realizing.

The sound is an alarming dissonance, shaking both of them into silence. Luckily, Brendon’s hand didn’t go through the plaster. That would just fucking _add_ to this perfect day, having to pay extra for the fucking hole left in their motel room.

“Fuck you, Frank.” Brendon wishes his voice held an ounce of the anger it did at the beginning of this fight. 

He slides down the wall to curl into himself. Frank doesn’t believe him and will probably leave. Ten years down the drain. Over what? One little fight.

This sucks.

Brendon looks up at Frank. “When was I supposed to tell you, huh? Any of the times you’ve heckled romantic movies or commercials? When you complain about monogamy and how it’s ruining relationships because no one can love someone for fifteen plus years without straying? When, Frankie? When would have been a good time for you?”

Frank’s still for what feels like forever. “You should have said something.”

Brendon shakes his head and stands, wobbly. “Why? So you can tell me to pack my shit and get the fuck out of your life because something in your past scared you so damn bad that you’re afraid to love someone?”

Frank takes measured steps until he’s in front of Brendon. “None of that.” He leans in and kisses Brendon. It’s nothing but a dry press of lips. A question of its own.

Brendon’s not sure what it means. He’s too afraid to take the initiative.

Maybe Frank can read that fear on his face because, instead of giving up, he runs fingers, slowly, through Brendon’s too long hair.

“Because we could have been doing shit for years.” Frank’s fingers are gentler than his words.“Now are you going to wimp-out on a second fucking kiss, or are you going to get with the program?”

The program, apparently, is making out against the wall Brendon punched. Brendon should be surprised. He isn’t.

Frank works at his own pace. His brain is a mystery in all the ways Brendon’s is the opposite. The great unknown compared with the openest of books.

*.*.*.*.*.*

The morning dawns with frost drawing figure eights across the window pane. Brendon rubs his hands together and shoves them under his armpits as he watches the sun rise. 

It’s cold. 

Winter doesn’t officially start until the end of December, but it’s always fucking freezing in the northern states during November. 

Usually, they stay south from November through March, if only for Brendon’s benefit. He grew up in the desert. He’s not as acclimated to frozen wasteland winters like Frank is.

Not that Frank could probably survive a Jersey winter now. He’s as used to the warmer weather as Brendon. They’re migratory birds of a feather these days.

Street lights flicker off as the time ticks over into daylight hours. That doesn’t keep fog from persisting in shadowy corners. If Brendon cared for landscape photography, he’d take pictures of how desolate this moment feels.

The parking lot of this particular motel is mostly deserted. There’s a junker parked near the sagging lot fence. Two pickups sit under the flickering Motel sign. All in all, there’s not much of a selection for stealing.

Either they’re walking the rest of the way to Gabe’s tomorrow, once their reservation runs out, or they’re taking their chances with the Elantra they picked up three days ago. Money’s tight. Tighter than usual and either they walk to conserve funds, _or_ , Frank plays Jedi extra hard so they don’t have to pay for gas for their Hyundai.

The bedside table clock reads seven-thirty. Frank’s still asleep. Brendon hasn’t had such luck.

His thoughts keep racing.

They pulled their last job four days ago. 

Temporarily. Frank’s giving them through summer to rest. Then it’s back to cons and traveling. Though, they’re not going anywhere _near_ Cali. 

Which is a bummer. Brendon thought _for sure_ that he’d finally talked Frank into visiting Gerard and Mikey. Considering they totally invited Frank to Thanksgiving dinner, again, this year. But it’s Frank’s decision. If he’s not ready to face his childhood friends, then Brendon’s not going to force him.

Like, Brendon’s honestly shocked that Frank’s given in and admitted that they should take a break. Pretend to be normal for a few months. Not that they’re, like, fucking moving near Gabe either.

Instead, it looks like they’re going to hit up Miami. Mostly because it’s a city larger than a teacup so they can get lost in it. And there are beaches. Also, if they need to pull quick slights of hand when money’s low, they can without causing a scene.

In a small town, it might get old quick if the local gas station’s till was lifted and the security footage just vanished as if it had been erased. Or if Brendon started turning fives into hundreds. Someone could get suspicious.

So maybe Frank has a point on waiting until they have stacks of legit bills tucked away before venturing to the land of Found Families. Not that Brendon’s going to say that shit. The last thing he wants is to listen to Frank snarkily say _I fucking told you so._

On the plus side, they _are_ getting to visit Gabe tomorrow, before the Thanksgiving holiday. Gabe has plans Thursday through Sunday. But his Monday through Wednesday schedule is free of everything except a few short bar shifts. Brendon and Frank have been officially offered free reign of Gabe’s spare bedroom until they head out early Thursday morning. 

It’s a win-win situation. 

Frank gets porn buddy time while Brendon gets Cuddle Hour with someone who won’t grumble about not being a human pillow. Yes, Frank secretly loves cuddling. No, he doesn’t care to show it ninety percent of the time. Which is a fucking drag.

Brendon only knows Frank enjoys cuddles from sick!Frank appearances over the years. Sick Frank will mutter sadly if Brendon doesn’t stay with him after warming soup in a bowl for him. Also sick Frank enjoys using Brendon as a pillow and whispering about comfortable positions when he doesn’t think Brendon’s listening.

It’s cute. And a shame that Frank thinks he has to hide his closet softie when well. Brendon would never think less of him. Fuck, Brendon’s a proud softie and that doesn’t make him any less confident or capable at his trade.

“Come back to bed, asshole. You’re going to freeze like that and then I’ll have to fucking find a damn chisel to get you loose.” Frank’s not muttering which means he’s been awake watching Brendon for several minutes.

“Come and get me.” Brendon arches his eyebrows enticingly just to get Frank to snort. “Or, you know, you could get up and get dressed. It’s eight. Breakfast time. I caught a bakery sign on our way here. I bet we have enough saved up to waste a ten on a dozen doughnuts.”

Fifteen minutes later, only because Brendon refused an offer of shower sex, they’re parking outside of a place called Doughnut Hut. Frank’s not happy about the arrangement. Brendon’s not too broken up about it. Confectionary Breakfasts are his favorite.

They’re going to head back to their motel room after this and fool around anyway. That’s been their MO since the first week of November. Which brings Brendon back to part of why he couldn’t sleep last night.

This will be the first official meeting between Frank and Gabe where Brendon’s technically free to sleep with either of them. Gabe says he’s open and that it’s not like they’re dating so the bros with benefits thing still stands. As long as Frank won’t try to lift shit in jealous retaliation.

But what if he’s not as comfortable with that arrangement when Brendon and Frank show up? Brendon, honestly, doesn’t know if he can choose between Frank or Gabe. Frank’s his partner in crime, but Gabe’s his best friend. They’re both an important part of his life.

And Brendon doesn’t think he can give either up.

“Pick a fucking flavor, Brendon. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s like you’ve never seen circular, holed pastries a day in your life.” Frank irritatedly shuffles from one foot to the other. Glare firmly in place.

Right.

Doughnuts.

Brendon likes them. 

He picks out his six and orders a coffee. It’ll be shitty. Bakery coffee is always shitty. Frank pays and Brendon takes the box and his coffee from Frank, whose eyes are slightly unfocused but nothing to worry about.

Once they’re in the car, Frank cuts on the ignition and cranks the heat up to boiling.

“Want to tell me what the fuck froze you up in there, Icella?”

Brendon doesn’t. Not really. 

“Are we dating?”

Frank sets his coffee in the cup holder. He doesn’t say anything while Brendon nervously tears a plain cruller into sugary chunks on top of the closed box.

“Are you expecting a promise ring or fresh flowers every day?”

No. Brendon isn’t.

“Promise rings are a precursor to marriage, Frank.” It’s enough of a distraction that Brendon starts popping chunks of shredded cruller into his mouth.

“So, that’s a _no_. Then we’re whatever we were fucking before, only with the addition that we’re fucking now.”

Frank reaches out and opens the box to pull out something with a thousand sprinkles.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to force you into giving up Gabe. So you can fucking _sleep_ without waking up every hour like a restless kiddie. I’m not taking his ass away from you.” Frank doesn’t exactly sound happy and supporting.

Which is understandable. Only, Brendon and Gabe haven’t really been hugely Bros-with-Benefits the past few visits. Like, yeah, they still do occasionally make out or fuck. Things have just sort of mellowed out a bit. It’s a more comfortable relationship now.

But Frank’s not letting Brendon argue the point. Instead, the radio snaps on and something with blaring horns begins to play as Frank reverses out of the parking space with gusto. 

*.*.*.*.*.*

Burl Ives sings in the background while Brendon hums along. The little radio they bought at the local thrift store was a steal of a find. Not literally, Brendon hasn’t nicked a single thing in weeks.

His fingers occasionally itch to pluck something shiny from its home and take it with him for pawning. He’s been good at distracting himself instead. The tiny two room apartment they’re temporarily renting has been tricked out with fresh bedding, a small supply of mismatched plates and several other thrift store gems.

Brendon’s been decorating the rooms the best he can with as scant of a budget as possible. Frank hates this place with a passion. But he’s surly over any _real_ apartments they go to see.

Nothing seems to be what he wants. Or they’re too expensive for what they’ve discussed. Or the owners give them shifty looks like they don’t believe Brendon and Frank are good news to have around.

Just last week, Frank almost punched a Super for implying that Brendon was a hooker and that they were going to hell for living together. Fuck that guy, Brendon would rather stay here at this pay by the week inn than deal with assholes.

Hell, Brendon wasn’t even dressed improperly. He had on a tee-shirt, yeah, but it wasn’t extra tight or mesh, or falling apart to show skin. Whatever, that’s in the past.

It doesn’t matter.

Today’s Christmas. It’s a day for happier thoughts. Like the fact that Brendon’s pretty sure he’s talked the nice lady who runs the front desk into letting him try his hand at fixing things that might break here. If that fails, she’s admitted that they’re sorely in need of more maids since they can’t keep a full staff because the pay isn’t that great and there aren’t any health benefits attached.

Brendon hasn’t had insurance in, fuck, _years._ It just hasn’t been something he’s thought about often. Sure, it’ll pop up from time to time. Like the time he and Frank ended up fighting the flu for a week one January. Or the time he needed stitches in his knee after a fight with a hidden wire fence took a chunk of skin out of him for its victory prize.

But that’s beside the point, which is that getting paid is higher on their list than health care. It’s not like they’re going to legitimately start paying taxes. Especially, if Brendon can get Stella at the front desk to let staying at the inn be his pay until they can find a new place.

Frank’s off _somewhere_. He found something that pays decent the first week they rolled into this run-down little Florida town Brendon can’t even remember the name of. Apparently, the job is legit and pays cash under the table. 

Which seemed fortuitous at the time. Now, though, Brendon’s not as sure. Frank won’t talk about it. Outright refuses to give _any_ details if asked or put on the spot.

The only reassurances Brendon gets are the repeated sentences _Jesus fucking Christ, lay off, it’s not drugs or sex_ and _fucking hell, I’m not fucking stealing shit, I don’t want to talk about this_ which aren’t actually reassurances. But if Frank doesn’t want to talk about it, they don’t talk about it.

Brendon sighs and goes back to his box of Christmas decorations. Stella’s letting him borrow some of the lobby’s babbles and bobbles on the hopes that if he’s around next holiday season, he’ll put them up in said lobby for her. 

If they’re around, he will.

Holidays aren’t something he’s gotten to fully embrace since graduating high school. Which isn’t a line of memories Brendon cares to focus on today. Then there was Frank. And, while they did find ways to celebrate, it wasn’t anything more than a fleeting hour or two of wearing Santa hats in a diner while ordering ridiculous meals for each other.

But they’re stationary this year. So Brendon _wants_ them to make new memories that Frank can curl around when he needs the comfort and Brendon needs the restful warmth of those experiences. Plus Gabe sent them wrapped gifts to sit under a tree they don’t have.

Which means Brendon, totally, asked Stella, this morning, if he could borrow the _smallest_ palm tree in the lobby to wrap multi-colored lights around. An hour of dragging the pot to their room with Stella’s assistance and a step ladder later. Tada. Tropical holiday tree for everyone’s enjoyment.

The top of the fronds don’t even brush the ceiling. But only just by a fraction of an inch. The resulting shadows that play across the dingy eggshell paint job will be perfect when Brendon cuts the lights off after dark.

There’s a red and white snowflake fleece blanket draped around the base of the palm as a tree skirt. It doesn’t reach the matted down carpet so the pot shows. Brendon’s thought about moving the wrapped boxes to the floor as covering, but they look cooler gently sitting in the pot. Once they’re unwrapped Brendon plans to take the blanket off of Mister Palm’s dirt. Until then, this works better.

Once he’s done decorating, it’s time to bake cookies. Brendon snagged a deal on three boxes of pre-made sugar cookies. None of the three are the same. There’s a box with red Santa hats printed on them, one with green fir trees, and the other has little blue snowflakes on them. 

When the cookies are cooling, Brendon quickly wraps Frank’s gifts. There’s a pair of sneakers the thrift store supervisor gave him for free after Brendon accidentally kept her an hour after her morning shift ended by telling her how nervous and worried he is over Frank. How he wanted to make the holiday perfect since they’ve never gotten to do this while stationary.

If Stella doesn’t want to keep him on, there’s a pretty good chance Heather will find some way of getting him on at the thrift store. It would be a service job, which Brendon knows he’ll hate. He hated working in the service industry at nineteen, he’ll hate it now. However, it can always be something temporary on the way to a job that isn’t shitty as hell.

After the sneakers are set on the ground in front of the pot, which, was a good idea, it breaks up the solid shade of shale into something that isn’t as hideous, Brendon rolls Frank’s yearly gift shirt into a cylinder so he can wrap it into a candy cane shape. It looks extra festive in the peppermint stripe paper.

Once Frank’s gifts are done and the cookies are covered in foil, Brendon crawls into their bed for a nap. He’s been too excited, nervous, stressed, to sleep since Monday. By now, a little cat nap will do him good.

Not to mention, the only thing left to do is pop the veggie pizza he got yesterday into the oven to cook. He’s earned some sleep. 

When he wakes up, the room is dark with stripes of murky brightness filtering in from the parking lot lights. “Silver Bells” is playing softly from the main room. If Brendon strains his ears, he can hear Frank singing along.

Asshole, didn’t wake him up when he got in. 

There’s the smell of pizza baking. Knowing Frank, his plan was to let Brendon sleep until the pizza was finished that way he could comment on Brendon’s sleepy way of eating slices. Frank’s always found ways to point out how lazy it is. Brendon’s pretty sure it’s one of those endearing things Frank can’t help but like about him.

Like, seriously, it has to be because Frank likes to dig up those memories and sit in them when he doesn’t really care to burrow into more interesting or deeper moments.

Brendon stretches and slides out of bed to go piss. On the way, he slips on one of the apartment guide ad books he thought he’d hidden safely under the bed. They’ve sort of amassed a mini collection of apartment booklets in the past three weeks. 

Frank hates them. He’ll frown any time he sees Brendon flipping through one. But he’s trying. Brendon’s found him on sites twice in the last week bookmarking places to check out after the holiday. 

It’s a start.

“Merry Christmas.” Frank pulls Brendon into a sweet kiss when he notices Brendon counting the three new presents sitting on the floor near the ones he wrapped earlier. “I like what you did with the place. Less fucking dump, more festive fucking dump.”

Brendon shoves Frank’s arm in retaliation. Not that Frank _meant_ it. He’s smiling. Like an honest to goodness _SMILE_ not a smirk, not a grimace, but a smile. Brendon’s beaming in reply to Frank’s happiness, instantly.

This doesn’t generally happen much. Frank tends to hide under his skin. Brendon wishes for the billionth time that Frank would just tell him what happened. Maybe doing so would lift whatever weight he’s been carrying for over a decade.

Maybe not.

Brendon doesn’t know. He just wants to see Frank happy more often. It’s an unsurprisingly _good_ look on him. 

“I did what I could. You should have gotten me up sooner.”

Frank shrugs. “You looked like you needed the extra hour.”

Which is true. Brendon _did_ need that extra hour. “Whatever, when you burn the pie, remember what you just said.”

“Not going to happen. Unlike your ass, I actually _know_ how to cook.”

At Brendon’s unimpressed look Frank huffs. “I can even fucking make a pizza from scratch. Crust comes out golden fucking brown every damn time.”

This isn’t something Brendon knew. Like he said, Frank keeps most of himself closed off. But on the bright side, Brendon knows now. That’s progress.

“That mean you’re going to fucking show these skills off, for me?” Brendon’s trying to not sound like this is the most important thing in the world to happen to them. Because nonchalant is the only way to go here or Frank’ll spook and get snappy. 

And, just like Brendon expected, Frank’s body language closes off. As if he’s realized what he’s inadvertently offered. Yet, he doesn’t snap back. “Maybe, let’s just wait and see.”

It’s surprising.

Brendon laughs off his shock and spins around Frank in their barely existing kitchen to pull out their pizza. Once it’s on the stovetop, Frank cuts the pie into slices while Brendon grabs them plates.

Actual fucking plates. Seriously, Brendon shouldn’t be so fucking torn up on real plates made of ceramic instead of paper. But he is. It’s a thing. 

Frank divides the slices amongst their plates before popping the fridge for two beers. 

After the bottles are on the kitchen table, he goes back and pokes at the foil wrapped plate of cookies. “If this is your sad attempt at fruit cake, I’m going to laugh my ass off.”

Brendon mumbles “Cookies.” while chewing.

He’s kind of, like, busy right now. He’s missed veggie pizza from the oven. Sure, it’s not the same as fresh from some of the pizzerias they’ve visited over the years, but it’s still damn good. 

Frank doesn’t say anything. Brendon swallows and glances over at the counter. Frank’s just staring at the shiny foil like it holds the mysteries of the universe underneath it.

“Hey, they’re just shitty pre-made sugar cookies. Don’t tell me you can do better?”

“Better than fucking Pillsbury shit? Anyone can do better than a fucking box, Bren.”

Frank doesn’t explain himself further. Like how he knows Brendon bought name brand instead of store brand. Or various other things Brendon needs to file under Pester Later if he wants to know more about Frank’s past.

“Fine fine, they fucking _suck._ You don’t want them, don’t eat them. Your pizza’s getting cold.”

Brendon hides behind the motions of eating. He doesn’t want to fight. And it’s not like he knew fucking sugar cookies would set Frank off.

There’s so much he doesn’t know. To be fair, Brendon’s _known_ of those gaps for _years_ it was just never really a huge problem. Not when they could delve into a million other topics that didn’t center around past lives.

“They’re just cookies, Brendon. Shitty cookies, but still cookies. Don’t read shit into nothing, okay? I worked in a kitchen for a few years. Worked up from washing dishes to bouncing around baking stations. It’s not an interesting story.”

But it is. To Brendon. 

“Whatever you say, Frankie.” 

It’s only mildly placating. Any other day, Frank would call his ass on that. Instead, he finishes his pizza and deposits the plate in the sink.

“Come on. I bet there’s a special on to watch while opening presents.”

It’s more like “Miracle on 34 Street” is playing. But whatever. Brendon’s not actually picky about Christmas movies. Especially ones about Santa. 

He gets to eat cookies, which really aren’t terrible, and open presents with Frank while a classic plays in the background. What’s not to like?

The only downside is that they sort of start making out before presents, so by the time gifts are being revealed, Brendon’s not exactly in the full moment. Everything sort of passes in a soft blur because Frank’s flipping through holidays of years past.

Like he’s either trying to memorize everything he can before Christmas is over with, or he’s sizing up their haul and comparing. Either option is highly possible. Brendon doesn’t have the heart to pull Frank out because they haven’t technically fallen into one single memory, yet, so Brendon’s still capable of halfway focusing on the watch boxes labelled Porn that he and Frank both got from Gabe.

That is, he _could_ focus, until Frank pulls him back into a heated kiss after the last present is unwrapped. 

_Thank you._

It should be startling. Frank pushing a mental thought at him. Seeing as Frank hasn’t done that shit in years since Brendon can’t actually converse mentally. But Brendon gets it. Frank doesn’t really feel comfortable talking about settling down with Brendon.

So for now. This is what Brendon’s probably going to get. He can be patient.

Though, not as patient when Frank’s suddenly carding through memories of a few nights ago. Asshole loves to fucking turn Brendon on by pulling up their last night of sex and replaying it until Brendon gives in and drags Frank to bed.

“I fucking love you, Frankie, but if you keep doing that, I’m going to hurt you. This is so fucking unfair.”

Frank’s replay shudders for a second. It’s barely noticeable. But, before Brendon can ask what’s wrong, Frank quickly switches to a different night. This time he skips the foreplay memories and goes straight to the blowjob portion of the show.

He’s learned quickly, which buttons to push. And he’s doing a perfect job. Enough so, that a few minutes later, they’re shedding clothing like wilting flowers drop petals during a stiff breeze.

There’s laughter when Brendon almost slips on something on the floor. Which, of course, is that damn apartment booklet trying to kill him again. In retaliation, he bends and picks it up, before poking Frank with it a few times. Which results in Frank tugging the booklet away and setting it on his night stand.

Then it’s back to the main event and Brendon maybe gets too caught up in kissing Frank breathless to pay attention to Frank’s fingers tightening against his hips as if he’s trying to hold on to something he can’t keep.

It’s not something Brendon realizes he should have paid attention to. Not when Frank’s pulling up every dirty trick in the book to drive him crazy.

But later. It will.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Brendon tugs his jacket closer to his body. It’s fucking freezing. Seven layers isn’t enough to shield him from a wind that cuts like a knife.

What a great _idea_ going to Florida was. Three weeks of nervous semi-settling followed by Brendon waking up the twenty-sixth to an empty bed. Fuck, a mostly empty apartment.

Frank’s just _gone._ Vanished into thin air as if he’s never existed. No one around the inn nor the thrift store remembered him. Which means Frank planned days in advance. He didn’t just uproot himself because he got spooked when Brendon said _I love you._

Like Brendon’s agonized over that point for fucking _days._ That has to be why Frank’s memory replay skipped because until then, even within joking conversation, Brendon had never used those words in that combination. But it can’t be why Frank left. There’s too many other factors that point to pre-meditated abandonment for what Brendon said to have been the straw that broke the camel’s weakened back.

Frank willingly gave information about his past. He wouldn’t give a concrete answer on if he’d show Brendon how to bake yummy things. And, the kicker of all of them, Frank’s inability to decide which memories he wanted to curl into.

Even after sex, he kept flipping through memories like a fledgling dragon molting for the first time. All nervous in their skin and in need of more love than usual. Brendon should have realized something was wrong. But he was exhausted even after his nap earlier that day, and Frank was warm. It was easy to sleep around Frank’s pitter patter of mental feet.

All Brendon can come up with is that Frank couldn’t handle settling down with someone. That it burrowed into his bones and made him ache for the road again. Or maybe it scared him so badly that he had to bolt.

Brendon doesn’t know. And that hurts. That after all this time, Frank would just turn himself into a ghost and leave without him. That ten years of partnership didn’t matter one fucking bit to Frank when he decided he couldn’t stay in one place.

Sure, Brendon can admit to himself that he was maybe _intense _with his search for someplace to live. But, in his defense, this was something he hadn’t known he’d really, really, _wanted_ until Frank agreed.__

__Brendon wanted to live with Frank somewhere permanently so badly that it hurt. But he was trying to not push. Maybe … maybe he pushed too hard too fast._ _

__It’s not like he can ask anyone for confirmation. No one remembers Frank, except for the Ways, Toro, and Gabe. Which means none of them have seen Frank. And he’s not really keen on asking any of them what he did wrong._ _

__Brendon sent an email to Frank’s friends. Nothing really informative, just something to test the waters. And, of course, he wasn’t there._ _

__Maybe one day. But still not now._ _

__Brendon’s also composed an email that he sent from Frank’s email to the same address. It hasn’t been opened. No matter how many days pass or times Brendon ducks into a library or internet cafe to check, the status is still the same._ _

__Unopened._ _

__He doesn’t know what else to do. Staying in Florida was _not_ going to happen. Not when the only thing Brendon could think of was everywhere something of Frank’s had been strewn. No matter where he looked, Frank was there. A shadowy after-image of what was, yet, wasn’t anymore._ _

__It was depressing and Brendon’s sure that if he’d stayed, it would have driven him around the bin. So, instead, he packed up what he could of his things, and re-donated everything else back to the thrift store or Stella. He’s been on the road five days by now._ _

__It’s lonely._ _

__And if he closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath, it’s almost as if the last ten years never happened. For one hot second, on day three of conning his way up the coast, Brendon thought about going home._ _

__He sends birthday cards every year. And, sure, he rarely if ever checks his own email, and even if he does, he only replies to mail from family a handful of times a year. He doesn’t want to get their hopes up, but it makes him uneasy, not letting them know that he’s fine._ _

__But their home isn’t his _home_ anymore. It hasn’t been for such a long time that Brendon doesn’t even know how a reunion would go. No one has even asked him to visit in four years._ _

__If he just showed up, out of the blue, there would be questions and disappointed faces. That’s not something he can handle in the near future. So, instead, Brendon’s trekking north._ _

__In fact, he’s almost at his destination. Yesterday’s New Year’s Eve good Samaritan was a truck driver who was willing to let Brendon accompany him on his journey up state. It was a boring drive._ _

__Thankfully, Brendon doesn’t actually know if he would have been in the best head space to fend off an attack like he did at nineteen. Knives don’t scare him, and neither does the prospect of being robbed. But the will to survive isn’t exactly high on his list at the moment._ _

__He’s showering and shaving when he does decide to get hotel rooms to sleep in. Mostly, though, he’s been robotically making his way north without really caring what happens to himself._ _

__His chest feels broken and full of sharp shards of something irreparable. His thoughts are all reminiscing memories flecked with the despairing knowledge that Frank _left._ And that has nothing on how empty and listless he feels. _ _

__If Brendon knew where to start looking for Frank, he would give up everything else and do so._ _

__Only there’s no point to start from. Not when Frank seamlessly erases everywhere he’s been. So looking is hopeless. Brendon _can’t_ chase after someone who doesn’t want to be found. He doesn’t have it in him._ _

__But, maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll have a place to stay. And, maybe, one day Frank will come back to them._ _

__Hours of walking pays off, eventually. It’s late afternoon when Brendon slips into Gabe’s apartment complex. It’s in a decent part of the city. Though, thankfully nothing too richie-rich that Brendon would have to be buzzed up._ _

__When he knocks, there’s no answer. Which is fine. Brendon didn’t honestly expect Gabe to be in this early on New Year’s Day. He still parties when he’s not on shift at the bar._ _

__Brendon takes his pack off and leans it against the wall. Then he lowers his duffel next to it. After that, he slowly slides down the cream paint job to sit with his head under the gold plate with Gabe’s apartment number on it._ _

__If he naps, that’s no one’s business._ _

__A hand lightly shaking his shoulder wakes him sometime later._ _

__“Brendon?”_ _

__Gabe’s crouched in front of him. He’s dressed in rumbled work clothes and there’s glitter in his messy hair. It’s comforting to see that Gabe never really changes. Brendon tries to smile, only it comes out as a wobbly frown._ _

__“Frank left. I don’t know where he is.” Brendon can’t bear to hear Gabe ask so he’s preemptive with what’s happened since Christmas._ _

__There’s the exhale of a shocked _oh._ Then Brendon’s being tugged into a strong hug. They stay like this for longer than Brendon’s willing to admit._ _

__Gabe feels safe and Brendon cries silently against his shoulder. Eventually, though, he wipes at his eyes with his shirt sleeve and pulls back. “Sorry.”_ _

__Gabe shakes his head and stands before offering his hand so Brendon has help standing._ _

__“Umm … Do you think I can, maybe, stay?” Brendon dislikes how weak and scared his voice comes out sounding. But, he can’t stop feeling exposed and raw. He’s had days to himself and now there’s someone he cares about in front of him._ _

__He’s afraid Gabe might see what Frank did. That maybe there’s something wrong with him and Gabe can tell as easily as Frank did and Gabe won’t let him in._ _

__Gabe nods “Sure, come on, let’s grab your stuff and get you settled.”_ _

__Brendon knows they’re going to talk about this. About everything, including how Frank’s also important to Gabe and that Brendon didn’t so much as imply that Frank was gone. But that’s okay. Brendon’s with the only other person he really, truly, cares about._ _

__He’s not alone._ _

__So he’ll talk, if that’s what it takes._ _

__*.*.*.*.*.*_ _

__January slides into February which fades into March with such ease that before Brendon knows it, his birthday’s already come and gone. The months pass in such a blur that, honestly, Brendon didn’t even know it was April already. Not until Gabe threw him a party._ _

__The apartment was full of people from work and a few randoms. It was a mostly good night. Except when Brendon had time to stop and notice that Frank wasn’t around._ _

__It’s the worst feeling in the world, knowing there’s something missing and not having a way of getting it back. Brendon still emails Frank. Every Friday there’s a new unopened message sitting in Frank’s inbox._ _

__Another shot in the dark that never changes a single damn thing._ _

__Brendon’s gone from apologizing to inquiring on Frank’s safety to just nattering on about his day. It’s almost as if Brendon’s hoping if he types out his memories for Frank that it’ll be the same as before._ _

__it isn’t._ _

__And that stings._ _

__Gabe frowns when he comes in from the bar to find Brendon composing lengthy letters that, technically, no one is reading. But he doesn’t say anything against this form of grieving. He just lets Brendon have his two hours glued to the computer screen before extracting him so they can go out for dinner and drinks after._ _

__Brendon has Friday through Sunday off. He doesn’t know if it’s because Gabe’s talked to the kitchen supervisor or if it’s easier for Brendon to not be in the way during the weekend bustle. Either way, Brendon doesn’t have to bus tables during the worst rushes._ _

__He also doesn’t have to wash dishes at a brisk pace. Which is fabulous because Brendon accidentally breaks things if he’s rushed. And he really doesn’t want to lose this opportunity to work up from only cleaning tables._ _

__There’s this siren call under his skin to end up in the kitchen full time. It won’t bring Brendon and Frank back together. But it’s something when Brendon can imagine possibilities from Frank’s past._ _

__The whole restaurant staff knows of his _lofty goal_. No one’s said a word to dissuade his dreams. Even though, the head of the waitstaff is unhappy because, apparently, he wanted Brendon as a server instead._ _

__Something about a sunny disposition and comments to Gabe on how easily Brendon cleans up. Brendon doesn’t care. Sure, he could be a waiter in a pinch. He just doesn’t want to take orders from patrons._ _

__So, Monday through Thursday, Brendon makes it his mission to do the best he can. He doesn’t want to be fired. Gabe went out on a limb to get him hired over at a friend’s establishment even without much legitimate job experience under his belt._ _

__And, it’s possible he could find work elsewhere. But Brendon has this strange urge to not fuck up. He wants to succeed. Not only as another way to slowly move past Frank and the hole he left when he vanished. Nor as a way to make Gabe proud of his progress as an average person paying bills and earning money to get by. But as a way to reclaim himself and what he wants his future to be._ _

__He’s not leaving Gabe. This is his life now. Brendon’s made his peace with that, and in ways, it’s a relief, settling._ _

__There’s no worry over whether a motel will be full or not. Or if a random assortment of cars will run out of gas in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. If Brendon doesn’t have money for groceries, Gabe helps out._ _

__They cook dinner together when they’re both off. Friday nights, after Gabe’s midday shift and Brendon’s finished with his weekly emails, they go out to explore the city together. It’s a blast of color because Gabe’s intent on showing off every gem of a nightclub and oddity as possible._ _

__It’s almost as if Brendon coming here has made his life more active. Like Gabe was doing fine, but it seemed as if he was beginning to get bored of his usual routine. It would come out in im conversations, in the tiny ways Gabe changed how he described things._ _

__That’s not present these days. Even if Brendon’s found Gabe randomly logging in to his chat client at odd hours to see if Frank’s online. Brendon _knows_ Gabe sends offline messages. _ _

__They’re both missing a person who won’t reply. It’s shitty and Brendon wishes he could do something about it. It’s just not within his power to do so._ _

__But if Frank came _home_ maybe they could arrange something. Brendon’s talked to Gabe about a myriad of hypotheticals. Everything from the two of them seducing Frank into a poly relationship to Brendon spending six months with Frank traveling and the other six here in the city with Gabe._ _

__Gabe prefers anything that keeps Frank from permanently running off again. The only problem with that is that Brendon has no idea of predicting what might or might not cause that to happen. If Frank ever even decides to look Brendon up for old time sake._ _

__Mostly because Brendon doesn’t know what Frank will be like when he eventually shows up on Gabe’s doorstep. He won’t apologize for leaving. Brendon knows that much._ _

__But will he be understanding of Brendon and Gabe’s relationship?_ _

__Will he want to fall back into old patterns?_ _

__Or will Frank want to pretend he and Brendon never slept together?_ _

__These are all questions Brendon can’t answer. He just doesn’t know. Frank can range from hot to cold with the snap of quick fingers._ _

__Not that it matters. The highest possibility on the list is that Frank never comes back. Either because he’s no longer breathing or because he wants to be alone the rest of his life._ _

__Brendon shakes his head and sighs. There’s no one in the apartment to hear him. It’s another Friday._ _

__He’s alone for seven hours before Gabe comes home from his shift._ _

__Usually, Brendon cleans the apartment and runs errands during the day. Then around six, he’ll settle down in Gabe’s computer chair to send Frank a new piece of his day. He’s too restless for any of those pre-game tasks today._ _

__Instead, it’s noon and he’s already sitting at the computer willing himself to sign in. Frank hasn’t changed his password. Hell, to the best of Brendon’s knowledge, the only person actively _using_ Frank’s email _is_ Brendon._ _

__At first glance, nothing has changed. Except, one of the messages has been opened. Brendon’s breath catches in his throat as he tries to remember which memories are in that one._ _

__He can’t remember. Everything is a jumble of months of desperate ramblings._ _

__On a hunch, Brendon refreshes the email client. The email reverts back to unread. Yet, another one, seemingly at random, is open instead._ _

_Son of a Motherfucking douchenozzle._

__Frank’s been fucking reading and rereading Brendon’s emails. For minutes, Brendon has to sit with his hands curled into balls in his lap for fear of punching the screen._ _

__Brendon closes his eyes and takes a few steadying breaths. The anger leaves and in it’s wake there’s this painful yearning gnawing inside his chest. Brendon hits compose without pausing to think on his actions._ _

__The only thing he sends is **I miss you. Please be safe.** After that, Brendon can’t bear to watch and see if Frank opens the new message, so he logs out, and ends up on Youtube listening to depressing songs._ _

__Hours pass this way. At one point, Brendon forces himself into the kitchen to take out the garbage because if he doesn’t, he’s going to log back in and destroy himself emotionally when he finds that the message is unread with no idea on if Frank _DID_ read what he sent or not._ _

__It’s cruel to know this. To know that Frank _is_ listening but isn’t replying. To know that Frank thinks the best course of action is to pretend he’s completely gone instead of giving Brendon the hope that he’s reading current events._ _

__Somehow, knowing this is devastating. As if it’s this massively _neon_ sign proclaiming how badly Frank _doesn’t_ want to actively talk with anyone. It makes a reunion such a lessened thing._ _

__There _should_ be this glimmer of silver in the distance. Frank is still reading Brendon’s words. Which means the likelihood is high that he’s also read whatever it is that Gabe says to him during his one-sided chat conversations. If he’s cutting his losses, why would he continue to torture himself with emails and chats that hold no mooring on his current path?_ _

__Yet, in the decade Brendon’s known Frank, he’s never visited his high school friends. _Never ever._ Even though, they’re the closest thing to family Frankie apparently has left in this world. So, if he won’t go out on a limb to re-establish physical contact with them, why would he come back to Brendon and Gabe?_ _

__The answer is that he won’t._ _

__That much is one hundred percent clear now._ _

__Brendon’s legitimately never seeing Frank again. Any hope for reconciliation is dashed, completely. Though, maybe he won’t tell Gabe. Brendon’s heart is already re-shattered, he doesn’t know if he can do that to Gabe again._ _

__Cleaning and straightening doesn’t happen. At six, Brendon curls on the couch with the lights off and every curtain in the place drawn. The A/C is set to sixty so the apartment is chilly enough that Brendon can hide under thick quilts in the middle of the sofa._ _

__It’s not enough to soothe the ache._ _

__The TV box’s clock blazes the time in vibrant blue, six-thirty-four, when there’s a brisk knock. Brendon startles and ends up in a flustered heap of limbs and quilts, partially under the mahogany coffee table monstrosity Gabe was gifted by a friend._ _

__“One moment.”_ _

__They’re not expecting anyone. Though, some of the neighbors _do_ work from home. The lady from 12E might need to borrow another cup of sugar for her baking. The last time Brendon obliged, he ended up with a plate of sugar cookies as a _thank you.__ _

__It was a very kind gesture. Even if Brendon didn’t have the heart or stomach to indulge. Not that he told her when he returned her flowery china plate._ _

__A few minutes of fumbling with the warmest of the quilts while shimmying out from under the coffee table pays off, and Brendon’s able to open the door a crack to see who’s paid them a visit._ _

__“Hi.”_ _

__Frank’s voice is rough. To be honest, he doesn’t look much better. Months of bad road telegraphing his emotional state loudly. It’s nothing pretty or encouraging._ _

__Brendon’s grip on the door tightens. He can’t breathe._ _

__It’s bad enough that his answering “Hi.” is a cross between a strangled exhale and a broken sob._ _

___I’m sorry_ _ _

__The press of thought is there and gone. A cat sprinting forward to brush your leg before slinking back again. As if Frank’s suddenly worried that he no longer has permission to roll around in Brendon’s head._ _

__“May I come in?”_ _

__Brendon can’t find his voice to say _yes._ So he just opens the door wider so Frank can bustle himself and his traveling bags inside._ _

__Once the door’s shut and locked, Brendon leans against it, shakily. His quilt is doing its best to drag his body downward, like an anchor sinking to the bottom of a carpeted sea of cerulean fibers._ _

__“Gabe’ll be home soon.”_ _

__There’s so many things Brendon wants to ask. So many words that have to be said. Yet, Brendon can’t find it in himself to _say_ any of them._ _

__“I know.” The statement is heavy. Heavy enough that Brendon’s gaze snaps up._ _

__Frank shrugs. “I promise. I’m not fucking going anywhere. Not anymore. I’m here to goddamn stay, if that’s allowed. So stop fucking looking like _that_.”_ _

__Brendon shakes his head, bewildered. He honestly doesn’t know what expression is playing across his face._ _

__His “What?” is a confused broken bird of a word._ _

__Frank takes a step forward. “That. That desperate fucking look. The one that says _I don’t fucking know if this is real or not._ ”_ _

__“It’s been four months.” Over that actually, but Brendon can’t force himself to voice that fact._ _

__“I know.” Frank’s tone drops into something solemn as he reaches forward tentatively and grasps Brendon’s hands in his. “Let’s fucking get away from the door, yeah? Gabe can’t get his ass in if we’re blocking it, can he?”_ _

__Brendon shakes his head again._ _

__And, like that, Frank’s tugging Brendon away from the door and leading them to Brendon’s nest of quilts. Once settled, Frank perches on the edge of the center sofa cushion, tense, like he’s not sure what happens next._ _

__Brendon _knows_ they need to talk about so many things. Ranging from _why_ Frank left all the way to what happens now. But, he can’t do that, the relief is still too fresh for his anger to boil it into something hotter and sharper._ _

__For now, all he wants is to sit in the dim with Frank and soak in the feeling of not feeling half as empty as he did anymore._ _

__When Frank continues to hold himself away, Brendon reaches for Frank and pulls him backward so he’s just as consumed by thick fabric as Brendon is. Once they’re comfortable with Brendon curled against Frank’s side, Brendon laces their fingers together._ _

__“It’s okay, Frankie. It’s okay. We’ll work everything out. Gabe’s missed you too.”_ _

__Frank relaxes in slow increments. After a few minutes, he tentatively flutters softly through a memory of Brendon and Gabe cooking together last month. Brendon sighs contently and closes his eyes._ _

__Things are different. Frank’s not fixed and neither are Brendon and Gabe. But, Frank’s _home_ with _them_ and that’s all that matters. They can begin to work toward patching the cracks and filling in the holes._ _

__And, maybe, one day, Brendon and Gabe can talk Frank into introducing them to the rest of his family._ _

__For now, though, this is a beginning. It’s sure as fuck better than an ending._ _

**Author's Note:**

> As always, Bootson was the best handholder, cheerleader, and just all around help at being there while I was writing this. This story wouldn't exist without her and not only because she was there the whole step of the way while I was writing. But, also because this is a world we've talked about extensively, in much more detail than even what I could fit into this tale.
> 
> In so many ways, this was started and finished because I knew she'd be reading it. And in a time when my motivation isn't what it used to be, that was the greatest push I needed.


End file.
